


The Song of the White Wolf

by Zadabug98



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: And Geralt hasn't even shown up yet, But I'm hoping for, But like... let's be real, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I don't really have... a plot for this yet?, MCU x Witcher Crossover, Multi, The first two chapters are a lot of... exposition?, and I just... had to run with it?, and needed more in my life, and then a lot of crying, and then a lot of shmoop, because I saw one a few weeks ago, boy talks like he's in a rom com, for some reason, it's literally just a lot of info, mostly comfort, warnings for lovesick Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23276098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zadabug98/pseuds/Zadabug98
Summary: When asked by the press, Tony Stark’s favorite teacher at MIT is Dr. Webster, the engineering professor who oversaw his doctoral thesis and never looked down on him for being a fifteen-year-old in a 300-level course. But when asked by anyone who truly knows him, Tony Stark’s favorite teacher at MIT is Professor Rivia, who taught the humanities course Tony was forced to take as part of MIT’s undergrad program.But perhaps there's more to Jaskier Rivia than Tony had been led to believe....
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Tony Stark
Comments: 85
Kudos: 459





	1. And at Last I See the Light

**Author's Note:**

> So I read an MCU x The Witcher crossover a few weeks ago and my brain couldn't shake the concept. I also realized I have an OTP Type, an OTyPe perhaps? and needed to do something with that knowledge. 
> 
> This is my first fic in the Witcher fandom, and the first thing I've written in like two years so I'm probably rusty but I'm also stuck at home because of COVID-19 so why the fuck not, am I right?

When asked by the press, Tony Stark’s favorite teacher at MIT is Dr. Webster, the engineering professor who oversaw his doctoral thesis and never looked down on him for being a fifteen-year-old in a 300-level course. She’s moved on from teaching, now retired and enjoying the life of a humble mechanic in a small beach town but Tony keeps a photo of the two of them on the wall of his office at SI and always sends her a card at Christmas.

But when asked by anyone who truly knows him, Tony Stark’s favorite teacher at MIT is Professor Rivia, who taught the humanities course Tony was forced to take as part of MIT’s undergrad program. Fond of the Arthurian legends as he was from years of Jarvis’s bedtime stories, Tony had chosen to take an intro to Medieval literature course which promised a multi-discipline, multi-media approach to the topic. On day one, Professor Rivia had strolled in wearing a large, feathered beret and a billowing cravat with a lute case slung over one shoulder.

Tony had been hooked ever since, and Professor Rivia was the only teacher from MIT that he truly kept in contact with beyond professional curiosity or obligation. He’d always had a strange relationship with professors and authority figures in general given how smart and how young he was, but Professor Rivia never baulked at Tony’s genius or his youth, and seemed to know just what to say to make Tony feel better no matter what the situation was.

And while the need for his guidance had dwindled when Tony met Rhodey, Tony hoped he wouldn’t mind being called upon to once more bail Tony out of some spectacular nonsense.

* * *

It had started as a normal HYDRA raid and though the Avengers had been down a Norse God, they’d had the benefit of some witty, bird-winged backup to make up for the missing air-support. Tony had hemmed and hawed about Steve being able to bring his Air Force Buddy while Rhodey was too tied up elsewhere dealing with whatever the USAF needed his honeybear’s beautiful brain for.

Nevertheless, a nefarious plot was stopped, a handful of HYDRA agents had been ferreted back to SHIELD for questioning and an interesting stream of data had been downloaded for Tony’s later perusal.

Or, as it were, Tony’s current perusal.

Except it’s all very, very boring.

Page after page of plots they already stopped, plots that never got beyond the ‘oh shit, this blew up in our faces and took a whole base with it’ stage, or plots so ridiculous there’s no way it’s even close to an imminent threat.

“Jay,” Tony groaned as he sat up from his sprawl across the workshop’s beat-up and oh-so-comfy couch. “Is there any way that this nonsense is code for something interesting, or did we really raid the least interesting HYDRA base in the history of crazy Nazi psychopaths?”

“My decryption software isn’t picking up any patterns,” JARVIS hummed in consolation, “perhaps the ‘fun stuff’ – as you’ve called it in the past, Sir – was kept off of their digital files in preparation for this very scenario.”

Tony grumbled but had to agree, shifting his attention from the data pad to the beat-up box of random scavenged goodies the others had passed on to him once they’d realized it was mostly techy doodads and, to quote the captain, ‘at risk of being accidentally detonated if left with Clint for more than ten minutes’ which sounded like an exaggeration to anyone who hadn’t been there for the Incident a few years back.

Sam had raised an eyebrow at Steve when he’d said it. Sam would soon learn better.

Nevertheless, Tony must admit the box is tempting, and it’s the work of a good hour or so to divide it into groups. Tony immediately sets aside the self-dubbed ‘useless and uninteresting until proven otherwise’ pile in favor of the more extreme ‘not a bomb, could be a toaster oven’ pile which includes a half-constructed ray gun of some sort, a mechanical apparatus that’s leaking oil and what may be blood, and what he can only describe as a glowing purple egg.

After a moment of consideration, Tony moves the egg from the ‘not a bomb, could be a toaster oven’ pile into the ‘definitely a bomb’ pile. Though it’s less of a pile and more of a very carefully arranged spattering of items. Given, of course, that they’re definitely bombs, it seems prudent to keep them separate in case of boom.

After a while the ‘not a bomb, could be a toaster oven’ pile is sorted, labelled, and catalogued according to appearance, place of origin, and assumed (though Tony’s assumptions are practically guaranteed) purpose. The ‘definitely a bomb’ group is a tempting follow up, but Tony can’t deny the allure of the only object in the pile labeled ‘shiny’.

The ‘shiny’ pile usually ends up full of magical artefacts or charms and Tony’s gotten pretty good at telling them apart even though they usually get handed off to Natasha for inspection as she’s the one with the most magical knowledge on the team. 

The medallion is a simple silver, hanging from a long leather cord that looks to have been snapped in half. The medallion itself is spotless, not a touch of oxidation or discoloration to be seen, and the sparkling simplicity is probably why it was sorted into his box rather than Nat’s. But sure enough when Tony lifts it, rubbing his thumb over the beautifully crafted wolf head design, the metal hums with a depth of magic Tony’s never quite felt before. The image, though, is familiar, and though he can’t quite figure out where from the slight spark he feels in the arc reactor is definitely familiar.

He flips the medallion, eyes skirting across the unfamiliar script.

Oh yeah, Tony thinks, flipping it back around, feeling the warm weight of it in his palm. This is old magic. Dangerous magic.

“Jay,” Tony says, eyes never leaving that of the wolf, “assemble the Avengers.”

* * *

It doesn’t take Natasha long to pull the medallion from his hand when he steps into the conference room, and the small jolt of her shoulders is the only outward show of her surprise at the low thrumming intensity of the medallion’s magic. “How did this slip past me,” she says to herself, tapping her fingers against the medallion and lifting it up to get a better look at it.

“Do you know what it is?” Steve asks from further in the room, seated just left of the head of the table. Bruce is across the table from him, trying to hold keep hold of Clint long enough to plaster a final row of butterfly bandages across his brow. The injury isn’t even from the HYRDA raid, and there’s genuinely no way to know how he got it unless Tony cares to ask, but Clint seems to be in once piece and – not for the first time – Tony’s curiosity outweighs his concern.

Natasha’s negative answer is expected. Despite her wells of magical knowledge, she was no sorceress, and though her… training at the Red Room made her strong and fast and hard-to-kill it still didn’t quite prepare the Black Widows for every possibility.

“It’s a Witcher’s medallion,” Tony says.

Natasha blinks.

“A Witcher’s medallion,” she echoes, one-part question and one-part sanity-questioning bafflement. In the modern era, Witchers are myths. Like King Arthur or the Lioness of Cintra.

“That’s some real knights-and-dragons bullshit, right there, my friend,” Clint says, finally free of Bruce and his First Aid Kit From Hell. “I don’t know how long you’ve been staring at screens but Witchers don’t exist, man. They’re like… the stories your parents tell you to make you behave. ‘Clean your room or I’ll send you to the Witchery Place’ or whatever the hell people say. They’re not real.”

Tony makes a pointed look at the superheroes gathered in the room, and points one finger at Steven Grant Rogers. “Where do you think the serum came from?”

The resulting squabble is childish, immature, and entirely unworthy of being noted in any way shape or form. It is full of finger-pointing, ‘you take that back’s, and a frankly unhealthy amount of ‘yo mama’ jokes from a group of adult orphans. Ultimately, Bruce has the final word when he silently stands from his chair and slams his fist against the table.

The following silence is tense and anticipatory, but Bruce calmly retakes his seat, clears his throat, and speaks. “So, you’re saying we need an expert in Medieval History?”

Tony coughs, Steve shifts his weight, and everyone calmly regains their seats, though Natasha had not so much as raised her voice during the entire thing and is somewhat insulted to be grouped together with her unruly teammates. “That would be a starting point, sure,” she says. “Though it would have to be someone we trust. This is old magic, dangerous magic, and I get the feeling it shouldn’t be… acting out like this.”

Tony nods slowly, leaning forward. “I may know a guy who can help,” he finally says, “an old professor at MIT who specializes in medieval literature, I could give him a call and see if he’s willing to meet with us.”

Natasha frowns, lip pulled into her mouth just slightly. “HYDRA had this for a reason,” she says, “I’m not sure I trust it going outside the tower and – no offense, Tony – I’m not sure I feel comfortable trusting a stranger with it on your word alone. Last time we let an artifact out of our sight, Loki’s scepter ended up halfway across the world in our enemy’s hands.”

“Justifiable paranoia seconded,” Clint volunteers, hand raised diligently despite his easy sprawl across the conference room seats. “But I’m cool with the nerd coming to the tower if we all meet him and hang around for the inevitable nerd-gasm that all you nerds tend to have over your nerdom of choice.”

Tony frowns. “I could call him now, see if he’s willing to come by,” he leans over to tap at the table’s central control panel, pulling up a keyboard and a holo-screen, “but you have to promise not to use the word nerd-gasm ever again.”

Clint’s raised hand becomes a thumbs up before dropping back down. A few moments later and there’s a ringing in the room followed by a slightly accented voice saying, “Why hello, Tony, darling, it’s been ages since last we spoke is everything alright?”

“Yeah, buttercup, I’m good. Just been busy with the Avengers business and whatnot.”

Professor Rivia makes suitably sympathetic sounds, but Tony continues before he can say anything more. “I’m actually calling for Avengers business right now, can I switch the call to video?”

They have to wait a moment for Professor Rivia to get his computer up and running before switching to a video call, but Tony and he spend the time on small talk and generally catching up because it has been a few months since Tony last had a chance to get in touch.

When Professor Rivia finally appears on the holo-screen he smiles, and the lines around his eyes are the only mark of age on an otherwise youthful face, framed by a pair of vibrantly colored reading glasses and a single streak of silver above his left eyebrow. “There you are, darling,” he says with a slight laugh, “looking as dashingly mature as always though I’ll never understand why you dye your grays,” he runs a hand through his own strands as if to demonstrate.

Tony laughs at the ongoing joke as the professor leans out of frame and comes back with a beautifully crafted lute in his hands, strumming the strings and humming to himself.

“How else do you expect me to keep up with these young things,” he says, gesturing to the Avengers who have gathered at his sides.

“Ah, I understand,” the professor says, chuckling, “though I’ve always had a thing for a silver fox, or a White Wolf as the case may be.” The Avengers trade glances but don’t comment on the instrument, or the notebook the professor pulls out and scribbles on a moment later.

“Anyway, jay bird,” Tony says once the professor has put the pencil down again, “these are the Avengers.”

Introductions are made with grace and dignity, and Professor Rivia insists on being called Jaskier in lieu of his formal title. “Titles aren’t meant for use between friends,” he says with a jaunty wink, “and I do believe we’ve become quite friendly with each other, haven’t we?”

The name is accepted, and after a brief explanation of the HYDRA raid for context, Tony lifts a handful of the charms liberated from the base into the camera’s field of view, just as a baseline to prove his friend’s legitimacy and trustworthiness. “Looks like charms and amulets, my dears, nothing too flamboyant or dangerous beyond a charm for sunny weather or safe childbirth,” he reports, leaning forward slightly in his chair and adjusting his glasses to get a better look, though his neat eyebrows are furrowed with something more than concentration. “It’s a rather odd mix of styles, age, and purpose if I’m honest. Not sure what type of person needs a cooling charm and three different room-warming amulets.

“Although that one on the left with the purple writing – no, not the – yes, that one darling,” he smiles when Clint points out the correct amulet. “I’d be careful with that one, the enchantment is chipped and though I doubt the charm itself is of any danger to you since it’s a ward against minor illness, the magic might break through the binding if it isn’t handled with care.”

Clint holds the necklace a bit further from himself and gently sets it down on the table, sliding it to the far end away from where they’re gathered around the holo-screen. “Thanks, Jask,” he says, flicking his fingers as if to dispel lingering threads of errant magic and sharing a quick glance with Nat to confirm or deny the professor’s claims and therefore his legitimacy. “Although I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting you to know quite so much about minor charms if you’re a knights-and-dragons kind of poetry guy.”

Jaskier strums a jaunty tune on his lute, clearly an unconscious expression of his glee, before smiling broadly at the Avengers. “I have my ways, darling, don’t you worry,” he says brightly, before the slight crease between his brows returns, “but I do believe you’ve called me for a little more than simple trinkets. There’s a number of minor mages in New York who would have been more than fit to the task. I don’t mind a test of trustworthiness, Melitele knows the world gets stranger every day, but I do wish you’d tell me what it is you need.”

Tony nods, glancing quickly over at Natasha to subtly ask permission and receiving a subtle nod in return. “There is one thing, Jay Bird,” he says, lifting the medallion into the camera’s view. “We think this is a Witcher’s medallion, but we don’t know if it’s… legitimate.”

Jaskier blinks at the screen for a few long moments, hands stilled and slightly shaking on the lute strings before he leans even further forward, glasses sliding down his nose. He swallows once, twice, before visibly steeling himself. “That is indeed a Witcher’s medallion, my dears,” he says gravely, “wherever did you come across a Witcher? Was he… was he with HYDRA? A HYDRA agent?”

Tony looks down at the medallion, shaking his head. “No, we didn’t actually come across a Witcher, per say, just the medallion,” he looks up in thought. “Although I’m not sure we would’ve known if we’d come across a Witcher, though, given that we didn’t know to be on the lookout for one.”

Jaskier chuckles, bone-white fingers clumsily resting against the lute and picking out a tune. “Oh, darling, if you had met a Witcher you would know it. _Bear not your eyes upon him, lest steel or silver draw…_ ” Jaskier’s voice fades out, a strong tenor suddenly brought low by an emotion Tony knows in his soul but can’t quite understand. “The Wolf School always did beget absolutely monstrous brutes, but they were capable of kindness beyond belief. Rather like a rescued hound, the poor beasties.”

Natasha coughs, bumping Tony’s shoulder in a manner that is far more conspicuous than her usual. “The engraving,” she says under her breath, and Tony nods to himself, swallowing around the torrent of grief that crashes over him out of nowhere.

“There’s also this,” he says, flipping the medallion and holding the buzzing disk closer to the screen so that Jaskier can see the engraving. He opens his mouth to ask if the script is familiar to Jaskier but is cut of by what can only be described as a scream cracking across the connection. He looks up to see Jaskier’s hand clutched at his face, fingers covering his mouth as heaving sobs rip from his throat in bloody, heaving gasps.

Tony blinks, glancing at the uncomfortable, concerned faces of the Avengers, hoping that they’ve seen whatever he missed in the seconds he was looking away from the screen. A crash sounds from the screen and for a second Tony thinks the professor has collapsed, but instead a dark-haired woman rushes into the frame, hands flitting across Jaskier’s shoulders as a younger, blonde woman darts to his other side, kneeling next to him and gently trying to pry his hands away from his face.

“Jaskier,” the dark-haired woman murmurs frantically, “Jaskier, what’s happened, is it a curse, is it the glamour, where does it hurt?”

The young blonde is murmuring in another language, something Slavic, but she’s the first to notice the video call still taking place. When her eyes set on the medallion still held in Tony’s outstretched palm her fingers grip tighter to Jaskier’s shoulder, and her chest heaves with the force of her ragged gasp. “Geralt,” she whispers, and the dark-haired woman’s face whips to her, eyes wide and near manic.

And then the dark-haired woman sees the screen too, sees the medallion, sees the script that sent one of Tony’s favorite people into near hysterics. It must be a curse, Tony thinks dully, it has to be a curse.

Because right as the dark-haired woman’s mouth curls in a cornered snarl, the young woman opens her mouth and wails, balls up her fists and _screams_.

The connection cuts out right as the piercing note clips the holoscreen’s speakers. The Avengers sit in stunned silence for a few moments.

Then the lights go out.


	2. Are We Out of the Woods Yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More exposition, a lot of explanations, and a little fluff. As a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing okay. Stay Home, Stay Safe, Stay Healthy. Any students out there trying to deal with classes and teachers and parents and jobs (or the more likely lack there of) I feel you. Not really how I expected my last year of college to go but here we are. 
> 
> And we'll make it through, I promise.

The lobby of Stark Industries is elegant and clean, but Jaskier notices none of these things as he steps out of Yennefer’s portal and into a corner of the expansive room. He imagines it must have been a monument to the technology hidden within the upper floors of the building, but the delicate chandeliers and elegant floor lamps are dark, marble floors gleaming red as they reflect the emergency lights flashing lazily in the corners of the room.

Jaskier sniffs delicately, blinking hard as his eyes adjust to the darkness and waving away Ciri’s delicate hands as she tries to wipe his still-damp eyes. “I’m alright, my little lion cub,” he says softly, voice still slightly hoarse, but doesn’t protest as she clasps his hand in hers instead, gripping tight for a few beats before letting him go.

“Of course you are, Tata,” she says just as soft, though it sounds less like an agreement and more like a platitude. She hasn’t roared like that in centuries, not since she learned to control her powers. She would argue with Jaskier, demand he tell her why the strangers had her father’s medallion, why they held her tata’s heart in their hands, but her throat is sore from the magic and her soul aches at the thought that maybe…

Ciri refuses to hope.

Yennefer refuses to let either of them despair.

“Come, darling,” she says, eyes flicking across the suspiciously empty room, “I have a feeling we’re going to need to take the stairs.”

A droning whine is their only warning before an explosion sends the doors to their left rocketing off their hinges and a suit of red and gold armor comes bursting through.

“Or not,” Yennefer corrects herself, throwing up a magical shield to deflect… nothing. The armor hovers, arms outstretched in a position somewhere between keeping its balance and preparing to fire, but Jaskier steps forward, nonetheless.

“Anthony Edward Stark,” he chides in an uncomfortably nasal equivalent to his usual snobbish impersonation, “is that any way to greet an old friend?”

The armor’s faceplate snaps up, revealing Tony’s concerned face and darting eyes, shifting from Yennefer’s shields to Ciri’s face before settling on Jaskier himself. “Would have been nice to have known you were on your way, Jay Bird,” he says. “Who are your friends?”

Jaskier sniffs again, dropping his shoulders slightly in a weak attempt at looking sad, vulnerable, anything to make himself less of a threat. He gestures to Ciri first, waving her forward. “This is Cirilla,” he says as she wiggles her fingers in a wave and smiles, “my daughter.”

He gestures to Yennefer next, pulling his face into a somewhat exasperated expression, as if he believes her defensive attitude is too much when in reality her strength is the only thing keeping him upright. “This is Yennefer,” he says, “my dearest friend and something of a sister to me.”

Yennefer nods her head but doesn’t drop her hands, and Tony eyes her as though he has more questions but ultimately says nothing, the suit humming as it descends before landing on the floor with a loud thunk of metal on stone. The suit opens up, and Jaskier’s sensitive ears can pick up a few hissed protests coming from the suit’s interior before it closes back up behind him. Must be the Avengers. Jaskier had wondered why it was only Tony that had come to greet them.

“A real family reunion, then,” Tony says, and Jaskier can pick up on the conflicting thoughts running through his head. “Wanna tell me why you picked my lobby as the venue? I know the view from the top of the tower is grand, but a good portion of the East Coast is blacked out,” he glances at Ciri, “and I could have sworn you lived in Massachusetts.”

Jaskier hums, subtly shifting to stand slightly in front of Ciri. If a fight truly breaks out, he knows it would be the other way around, but he’d never quite gotten over the protectiveness that bloomed in his heart the first time he met a bouncing baby Cirilla on her first name-day. When he’d run into her again, trailing behind Geralt with dirt streaked across her face that bud had blossomed into a weed whose roots could never be purged from his soul.

“I’ve much to tell you, my friend,” Jaskier says, “but first, please I beg of you let me see the Witcher’s medallion you have. Let me hold it just the once. It is worthless to you, not a relic of power or a thing of danger, but it may be all that I have left of my husband.”

Tony’s guarded posture shifts, brows furrowing, eyes wide. “Husband?” he asks, hesitant, “I never knew you were married.”

“There is much you don’t know about me, my friend,” Jaskier says, a resigned slope to his shoulders as he stepped forward, palms up. “But if you let me see the amulet, let me hold it just the once, I will answer any question you have for me. I swear it.”

A rustle behind them catches his attention before Tony can reply, and Jaskier turns to see Natasha and Clint creeping forward from another set of doors that probably lead to an elevator or another set of stairs. “Why should we trust you?” Natasha says, and Jaskier should keep his eyes on the gun in her hands but the broken leather strap and peak of silver dangling from her pocket captures all of his attention.

It takes him a few seconds to come up with a response, but Yennefer beats him to it. “Perhaps you shouldn’t,” she says, eyes refusing to leave the tip of Clint’s arrow.

Dimeritium. They really aren’t fucking around.

“But then again,” Yennefer continues after a beat, sizing up the newcomers and slowly lowering her hands, allowing the defensive shield to fizzle into nothing, “perhaps you should. I could make you believe us,” she flicks her fingers so that a waft of lilac and gooseberries dances across the air and Clint’s shoulders relax ever so slightly. After a few seconds the scent is gone and they tense again, taut like… well, like a bowstring.

“But you won’t,” Natasha says after a few moments of tense silence, elbows dipping of her own accord as she fishes the medallion out of her pocket. “This is old magic,” she says, “and while I may trust you enough to let you live for the moment, I’m going to need a bit more than half-truths if I’m going to trust you with it.”

Jaskier nods, reaching back to take Ciri’s hand in his once more. “I’ll tell you what I can,” he promises.

“Let’s start with your name.”

* * *

“You and I remember that war quite differently,” Yennefer supplies halfway through the tale. They’ve relocated to the conference room from before and Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri sit on one side while the Avengers listen attentively from the other. The medallion rests on the table in front of Natasha, and Jaskier cannot resist glancing at it longingly every few minutes.

“No, no,” Ciri says, “that’s how it went. Although I could have done without the excessive metaphors about Geralt’s hair and eyes and… _thighs_.” She frowns. “Gross.”

“You are 770 years old, not a child!” Jaskier protests and Clint spits out the water he’d been sipping on previously.

“What!” He shouts, “You’re how old??”

Ciri blinks, counting on her fingers for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, 770 sounds right.”

Jaskier nods. “That would make me…” he dithers for a moment, “790?”

“791,” Yennefer corrects. Jaskier nods. Yennefer was always better at keeping up with such things. Though he supposed since she maintained their glamours, it was in her best interest to keep track of the passage of time. Lord knows Jaskier had spent decades without a single thought given to the fact his face never looked a day over thirty.

Clint stares intently at Yennefer, but she shrugs. “A true lady never tells her age, but to spare you the embarrassment of trying to wheedle it out of me, 828.”

Ciri looks up from a few more moments of finger calculations to announce, “and Geralt is 860.”

The three’s energy dims slightly, Jaskier’s eyes darting once more to the medallion before dropping to the table in front of him. “He would have been, yes.”

“Forgive me,” Steve says, “but what happened to him? If his… mutations were used to make my serum, then maybe he’s still alive. I spent 70 years frozen in the arctic, maybe he’s not dead just… lost?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “If he were dead,” he says, “then I would be too. That’s what it means to bind your souls together the way we did. Witchers don’t really retire, you know. If they get slow, they get killed, but I couldn’t let that be his life. We agreed to share our lives, thinking it would give him a human life span. We settled at the coast, we lost track of time, and we learned the truth. In a decade we hadn’t aged a day, Geralt was still as strong as ever and I couldn’t keep him away from his destiny,” he ran a hand through Ciri’s hair, bringing her head closer to kiss her temple.

He held her there for a moment, both their eyes closed, before he released her and faced them again. “I could never keep Geralt from his destiny and for a man who ‘didn’t get involved’ he was always finding himself in the middle of one battlefield or another. I loved him dearly for it.

“So, you see, I know that he yet lives, but there are very few things on this earth that would have kept my beloved from returning to me.” Jaskier takes a shaky breath, eyes never leaving the medallion. “Greater men have tried, monsters of all kinds have slit his throat and made him bleed and still he always comes home to us. Home to me.”

Jaskier’s eyes flick up to meet each Avengers’ in turn, the cheerful cornflower blue hiding a depth of deep, dark pain. “I am not afraid to find him dead, my dear Avengers, because I know every breath I draw is mirrored in his breast. Rather, I fear the things that have been done to him, are being done to him, to keep him out of my reach.”

Natasha’s mouth opens, but Yennefer beats her to it. “Wherever he is,” she says, “he is hidden from us, shrouded in magic I haven’t felt since the fall of Nilfgaard. No matter what I try, his location is always muddled by dark and cold the likes of which I’ve never felt before.”

“And the medallion would help you find him?” Steve asks, tone sympathetic as Sam places a broad palm over his shoulder. The Avengers had largely been quiet as the Jaskier, Ciri, and Yennefer had answered their questions, but Steve’s eyes had been more sympathetic and his silences contemplative while the others’ analytical gazes gave away their rapidly processing thoughts.

Yennefer bites her lip, fists clenched angrily as Jaskier glances her way, deferring to her as always when it comes to matters of magic. “It might,” she says. “A witcher’s medallion is the symbol of their craft and Geralt wore his every day for nearly a millennium. It’s imbued with ancient magics whose secrets died when Kaer Morhen fell a few centuries ago.”

“But that’s not why we want it,” Ciri blurts before Yennefer can continue, “even if it couldn’t help us find him it’s invaluable nonetheless because,” she pauses, glancing at Jaskier who sighs.

“The medallion was the focal point of our bonding ritual,” he says, “as the medallions are layered with spells of protection and invulnerability for the witcher who wears it justly. The medallions themselves are nigh indestructible, though once the witcher to whom it belonged passes on, they tarnish and dull quite easily.

“It’s symbolic,” Jaskier continues, “to bind a witcher and their lover through their medallions as a symbol of trust and love, protection and acceptance. The bond bolsters the protective magic, so that the lover protects the witcher, but the bond is also anchored in the medallion which the witcher is tasked with physically protecting lest harm come to it and damage the bond.”

“The fact that they were able to take it from him is telling,” Yennefer says. “A bonded witcher would fight almost to the death to protect it, and Geralt was always far fiercer than most witchers.”

Jaskier and Ciri nod, and everyone’s eyes remain glued to the medallion for the duration of a few heartbeats. The silence is tense and anticipatory, as if everyone is waiting for someone else to tell them what to do. Unexpectedly, and yet completely expectedly, it is Clint that breaks the silence.

“I say we let them have it,” he says, leaning back in a manner that projects unconcerned nonchalance, balancing the chair on two legs. “Just because something is old, doesn’t mean it’s dangerous, I mean look at that cutie there,” he gestures at Ciri, “chick’s like seven hundred years older than Cap but my money’d still be on the big man if it came down to a fight.”

“That chick just sent half the Eastern Seaboard into a blackout, you dumbass,” Sam hisses, “haven’t you learned anything?”

“For the record,” Ciri says sheepishly as all eyes turn to her, “it was an accident and I’m very sorry.”

Natasha snorts delicately, which sets Tony off in a string of giggles. “It’s okay kid, we’ll get it taken care of in light of the circumstances. Just promise not to do it again and we’re cool as far as I’m concerned.”

Ciri nods vigorously, blushing under the attention. Jaskier really thinks Yennefer overdid it on the “how to get men to underestimate you” lessons in her youth, but he can’t deny the results now as almost every Avenger waves it off as water under the bridge.

Natasha it seems is unimpressed by her colleagues, but her eye roll is amused rather than exasperated and most importantly she slides the medallion across the table so that it stops just in front of Jaskier’s seat. He doesn’t dare to reach for it, looking up at the redhead with what must be an exceptionally complicated emotion flickering across his face.

“Take it,” she says. “I’m not stupid enough to think you’re harmless, but I’m not stupid enough to think you mean any harm, either.”

Jaskier nods, throat too tight and full of lumps to come anywhere close to voicing his thanks. With shaking hands and bated breath, he reaches across the table, scant inches feeling like millions of miles before his trembling, lute-scarred fingers close over the medallion. A rush of a magic blows across his skin, ruffling his hair as though Geralt is back with him, the magic of the bons settling at the back of his skull like the weight of Geralt’s broad palm.

It’s like fire and warmth racing across his skin, familiar magic zipping from cell to cell and screaming with joy at being reunited and pain at ever being separated in the first place. It’s the soft, cool touch that soothes his burning eyes and a pleasant heat that melts the ever-present knots in his shoulders, sinking against him and lifting him up and holding him pinned beneath the onslaught of sensation.

Without him noticing, Jaskier’s eyes flash a brilliant gold as he brings the medallion to rest against his heart. His head tips back, a long, labored sigh lifting from his lungs, followed shortly by a deep breath that fills the lonely parts of his soul with the scent of Geralt – leather and pine, iron and chamomile – he can practically taste it against his lips as he brings the medallion to his face, kisses the snarling muzzle of the wolf emblazoned across the silver.

He flips the medallion, golden eyes softening, light fading away as they settle back into their usual brilliant blue. “I lay my heart against him, my lips to ease his roar,” he sighs through the familiar, if amended, lyrics.

“Our song of the white wolf, will ne’er be sung alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's.... thaaaaaaat.... 
> 
> If any of you are getting a little annoyed at the fact that one day has taken almost 6,000 words then trust me, fam, I am right there with you. My brain is not made for angst or *shivers* logistics. I could never write a case-fic. My inner Virgo would go absolutely batshit over the nitty gritty details so, begging your pardon, but we're gonna go a bit faster (and FLUFFIER) in the next chapter. Yennefer can figure out the battle plans, Jaskier just wants to hug his man, mmkay? Mmkay. 
> 
> And yes, I am still planning to continue this fic but I work some this week (thank your local grocery store workers, people, we are going through hell right now) and I've got a presentation next week so idk how much down time I'll have to get Chapter 3 finished and Chapter 4 started. To keep myself motivated I've been compiling a Geraskier playlist on Youtube that is... a struggle. If anyone knows any love songs that you think fit Jaskier's perspective drop them in the comments, please, I'm faltering. Why do so many love songs talk about "oh, I love you but I can't have you" instead of the far superior "I love you with all my soul and shall do so until the day I leave this earth"??? What ever happened to besotted DEVOTION???? I need more "In the name of love" shit.
> 
> So, yeah, TL;DR I'm struggling but so is everyone else. Hit me with some kudos love and drop a comment if you wanna recommend some Geraskier tunes or if you have questions/comments/concerns about the fic... or if you wanna yell into the void, I'm down for that too. Some of ya'll did that last time and I RESPECT YOU! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!


	3. White is the Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends. I spent four hours today sanitizing shopping carts at the grocery store I work at because we ran out of the Sani-Wipes that you pull out of the dispensers. We ordered 9 boxes of the stuff last week but only got 1 box in, so understand that literally EVERYONE is running out of this stuff. Even the suppliers are struggling. Please, if you can, stay home and limit your social interactions. 
> 
> That said, have a Shmoopy-doopy chapter to heal your heart during these trying times. I'm gonna link the song Jaskier sings in the fic, let me know if it doesn't work for you but it's (a slightly altered version of) Black is the Color sang by Peter Hollens and Avi Kaplan. He also did a cover of Toss a Coin and Lullaby of Woe plus a bunch of other awesome fandom-y stuff. I particularly love his LOTR covers. Also his songs with his wife are beautiful, they harmonize like angels.

The room stays enveloped in a sense of calm for a few minutes as magic hums and trills around Jaskier, skipping across his skin and sparking in his eyes. One by one the Avengers leave the room, called away by some other obligation or simply to give them space, until only Natasha, Steve, and Tony remain – though Tony had pulled a small tablet out of his pocket a few minutes in to the silence to occupy his restless hands and get a head start on the whole _No Power_ situation.

After a few minutes, lights outside the window begin to flicker back on in an ever-growing wave of light crashing from building to building, and Ciri smiles sheepishly as the remaining Avengers relax ever so slightly. Tony smiles back at her reassuringly, tipping his head at his comrades with a long-suffering look that Ciri recognizes as a 'you don’t hold a candle to my normal level of nonsense' look.

With an appreciative nod she turns back to keeping an eye on Jaskier, watching her tata finally release almost a half-century of stress and anxiety. He’d been absolutely distraught once a month had passed with no word from Geralt, and it was only his studies at MIT that kept him from losing his mind in worry.

Yennefer shifts, slowly reaching toward the dangling leather cord, examining where the leather is broken before a quick spell seals it back together, whole and hearty in a way their family hasn’t been in decades. “Darling,” Yennefer says softly, gently chipping away at the silence, “may I see it for just a moment?”

Jaskier sniffs, slowly coming back to himself as he nods, holding out the medallion with still-trembling fingers. “Thank you,” Yennefer whispers, running her fingers over the ears and down the shoulders of the wolf, letting the magic speak to her. “You say you found this in a base,” she says, and though her eyes have slipped closed in concentration her voice is clear, obviously addressing the Avengers still sat across from them. “Where was this base located?”

Tony taps a few times at his small tablet before placing it on the table face-up so that a schematic blossoms in the air between them. Steve leans forward, shoulders shifting into Captain America Mode as he rattles of a location and a general description of the area. “Though if he was there, he isn’t anymore.”

Yennefer shakes her head, “no, I don’t doubt that,” she says, “if you had encountered an imprisoned Witcher you would have known, and likely not lived to tell the tale.” She takes a deep breath, bringing another hand up to rest under Jaskier’s, flattening both her palms to envelop the medallion and Jaskier’s hands in hers.

She bends down to press her forehead against the back of her hand and prays for strength, for her words to be true just this once.

* * *

In the end, Natasha lets them keep the medallion, though everyone knows her permission isn’t needed. It was obvious to everyone that the medallion belonged around Jaskier’s neck – if only for the time being, until Geralt was there to wear it himself – and Yennefer was willing to go to any length to keep it there, permission or no. Jaskier wore it proudly as he stepped through the portal home, fingers constantly lifting to pluck at the cord or press against the skin-warm metal.

They leave the tower having made a plan to meet later and discuss whatever their next steps were. If HYDRA really had Geralt, then there were no better allies for his retrieval than the Avengers. And if HYDRA were dabbling in magics they shouldn’t have been able to touch, then there was no better allies than a Witcher’s family.

Jaskier sleeps with the medallion around his neck that night and every night thereafter, some modicum of warmth finally seeping into his bones after decades of growing ever colder. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t tried to find Geralt on their own – and it stung that, even now, they needed the help of mortal allies to come anywhere close – but while the first two decades of searching had been fueled by a frantic zeal, recently Jaskier was almost afraid of finding Geralt.

The what-ifs were endless and each more terrifying than the last, but now Jaskier _knows_. Knows with a bone-deep certainty that the love of his considerably long life is out there and alive and most importantly, blessedly, _finally_ within his reach.

He goes to meetings he can’t remember, is asked questions he isn’t sure he correctly answers, and makes all of the appropriate sounds to make them think he’s paying attention. He drifts, gazing at maps with colored pins and slowly spinning holograms detailing the floor plan of a building whose name he can’t remember… and all he can think of is Geralt.

He longs to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, first and foremost. Wants nothing more than to cradle the back of Geralt’s beautiful head in his palms and hold his whole world right there in his hands, press their foreheads together and breathe the same air, share the same space. Feel their hearts and minds and souls reconnect on a level that Jaskier has only ever found in Geralt. His White Wolf finally home in his arms. 

He knows that one of the first things they'll do when he’s back is take a bath together, relearning each other’s bodies as if there was any way either could have forgotten. He’ll clean every speck of foreign grime from Geralt’s body until only soft skin and the scent of home remains, press his damp fingers against Geralt’s slow-beating heart and breath in time with the steady pounding. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to Geralt’s witchery meditation and he’s missed it something awful.

Jaskier watches the Avengers move around the room, pointing at boards and pursing their lips as they say… something… but Jaskier simply wonders what he’ll do to Geralt’s hair once they’ve dried off from the bath, warm and damp and drowsy. Should he take the time to fold Geralt’s hair into soft, secure braids so that his hair doesn’t tangle in the night? No doubt, wherever his love is he hasn’t had a chance to trim it and even for a witcher – who does almost everything at a glacial pace – his hair is sure to have grown quite long.

Natasha turns to argue with Yennefer and Jaskier wonders if he should leave Geralt’s hair loose after all. The better to stroke his hands through to feel the softness, let the snow-white waves pool between their faces and catch between his lips while they sleep. Because even if it tangles in the night, if Geralt wakes to a bird’s nest to rival Ciri’s then Jaskier will simply sit him down next to a warm hearth on soft furs and spend hours brushing through every knot.

His fingers itch with the wanting of it, the simple intimacies that he’s been denied. They brush across skin-warm silver, feel the minute spark and buzz and hum of the magic within the medallion, and it soothes him. But still he longs to thread his fingers through Geralt’s, hold his sturdy, sword-calloused hand and bring it to his heart, hold those broad palms against his cheek and breathe against Geralt’s heart as they just… exist together in a way they haven’t in so terribly long.

Yennefer, as always, knows he’s bullshitting from the very beginning, but says nothing. The Avengers follow her lead, reassured at least that since Jaskier is more of a lover than a fighter, there’s really no reason for him to be too caught up in the details of the search.

That is, until the third day when Yennefer throws her hands in the air. “Enough,” she says, startling everyone in the room except for Jaskier, “all this speculation is useless, and my eyes grow tired of all these primitive illusions,” she gestures to the holograms, and though Tony puffs up with indignation, Steve’s hand on his shoulder stops the no-doubt scathing diatribe from passing the man’s lips.

“I understand your frustration,” Steve says, “but HYDRA has always been slippery, and very good at keeping secrets. Narrowing down the search may take time.”

His tone is reasonable, his face bordering on empathetic, but Yennefer refuses to be placated on this. “Do not speak to me of time, boy,” she hisses, strands of her hair lifting slightly as the temperature of the room rises just enough to be noticeable. “I have sat idly by for three days, but you forget yourselves. I was born in a time of Kings and I served in their courts and I fought their wars until they all turned to ash, nothing left of them but ink on the page of a history book. I watched this country come to be, from the very first few who dreamed of something more and _died_ for it.”

Ciri steps forward, small hands coming to rest on shaking shoulders but saying nothing.

“You think you know the crushing weight of time,” she asks with a sneers. “You may think that forty years is nothing compared to forty lifetimes, but when you live as long as I have, and have _lost_ as much as I have, you hold every second in your hands like they’re precious pearls and you _do not let go of them_.”

A blast of hot air rushes through the room, and a feather-light stiletto knife embeds itself in the wall behind Yennefer. Purple eyes find emerald green, but Ciri’s grip on Yennefer’s shoulder tightens, dragging the sorceress back a few steps and into a chair.

“Maman,” she says in the language Yennefer had fallen in love with centuries ago and insisted everyone learn, “Don’t go forgetting yourself, either. They are mortal, and their squabbles are petty, but they are trying to help us.” Yennefer snorts but Ciri continues, “and they are not worth your ire. Save it for the beasts that have captured my father.”

Yennefer huffs but nods, leaning forward to press her forehead against Ciri’s, breathing deeply to once more find her center within the Chaos that floods her veins. It’s been snapping and snarling for blood ever since Geralt vanished, and though she hates to admit it, Ciri is right. There’s no reason to go chasing away their first solid lead.

She can hold on to her rage for just a few more days.

Yennefer’s eyes open slowly and she nods, turning back to the spooked Avengers, an idea forming in her mind. “You’re right, pup,” she says, and she smiles, imagining how much sweeter her revenge will be for the waiting. 

* * *

“It’s not an easy spell,” Yennefer says the next day, dropping a bag of clinking bottles and vials onto the table with a dangerous sounding thump. “And it’s never worked before, but with the way things are now,” she gestures to the small traces of ambient magic still floating around Jaskier’s head, “perhaps it’s worth a second try.”

Natasha nods, pulling the bag to herself and rifling through it’s contents before nodding. “What do you need from us?”

Yennefer grins wolfishly but it’s Ciri who responds, flipping through the spellbook she and Yennefer had dug out last night. “We just need a map, preferably the biggest one you have that covers known HYDRA territory, but a couple smaller maps of the most likely areas should work as well.”

Natasha nods and Steve leaves the room to fetch them. Clint, Bruce, and Sam chose not to attend this meeting and in truth their other obligations had kept them in and out for the past few days. Nevertheless, Yennefer felt somewhat guilty that perhaps her previous outburst was the cause of their distance.

Not that she would act on the feeling, or apologize in any way, but still.

She turns away from that thought and toward Jaskier, who is once more sitting in his chair and fiddling with the silver medallion, eyes far away as he sings under his breath. The ambient magic twisting through the locks of his hair flare brighter whenever his voice rises above a whisper, and Yennefer scrunches her brow, wondering how she missed that.

Steve returns with a few maps, spreading across the table as Ciri and Tony argue over whether the maps must be physical or if a hologram wouldn’t have worked better.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer calls, voice soft but tone sharp enough to cut through the fog he’s been living in. He looks up, startled that his name has been called, and looks at Yennefer expectantly, saying nothing.

She steps closer to him, kneeling in front of his chair and once more placing her hands around his where they clutch at the silver medallion. “Jaskier, darling, I’m going to perform a spell and I need you to pay attention.” He nods, eyes clearing ever so slightly as his gaze flickers across the room, taking in the maps and the others sat around the table or standing near it.

“I know we’ve done this spell before,” she says, “but I think now that we have this,” she lifts their hands, shaking them slightly to emphasize the medallion. She closes her eyes, brows scrunching as though searching for something, “old magic like this that is so deeply tied to a person’s very soul,” she nods to herself, brows smoothing out. With a slow breath out, she begins lifting the hand holding the medallion such that she pulls from it a strand of silvery blue magic, glistening in the light and practically singing.

“I think we can do it,” she says, opening her eyes to look into Jaskier’s. “What do you think?”

Jaskier nods, fascinated by the glow of the magic. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Tell me what to do.”

Yennefer turns her wrist and the magic coalesces in her palm, forming a nebulous ball. With the other hand she leads Jaskier’s hands and medallion back to his own chest, resting the medallion against his heart gently before putting a hand beneath his elbow and helping him to stand, both of them walking towards the maps laid out on the table. Yennefer quickly reaches into the bag she brought and pulls out a small spell-pot and a handful of herbs. One or two she quickly spells to be dried and crumpled into the pot, while another she tucks into her mouth, chewing a few times before discreetly whisking it into the pot with the other herbs. The smell is noxious but not particularly unpleasant.

She pulls a small sachet of things from a different side of the bag, a small clear crystal crushed into fine powder between her fingers before a vial of what looks like blood but smells like spiced honey is dumped into the pot alongside a few drops of crystal clear liquid. Yennefer gently pours the brightly flashing magic into the pot and while one hand cradles it gently, heating it from the bottom, the other summons a thick metal stirrer and quickly runs through the mixture four or five times before it begins to smoke fiercely.

In a few moments the potion is complete and before anyone can think to stop her, Yennefer pours the contents of the pot onto the maps, more and more liquid flowing out than should be possible. Despite the shouts of the table’s occupants it doesn’t come close to spilling over the edge of the table, rather slithering and flowing across the surface and taking the shape of what appears to be a wide disk with serpentine filigree marking the edges in a constantly shifting, lacy border.

Once more Yennefer darts a hand into the seemingly bottomless bag, pulling out a small dagger, encrusted with jewels and obviously more decorative than functional. The blade is wicked sharp though, and Yennefer feels the bite as she drags the very tip across her palm in a shallow line that heals almost as quickly as it is made. Still, a single drop of blood falls from her hand, landing dead center in the disk on the table, causing far more ripples than a single droplet of blood should.

Everyone around the table holds their breath.

Slowly, like a drop of ink spreading across a glass of water, the disk darkens. Flashes of light bounce from one side of the disk to the other, the perfectly circular shape blurring as it juts out at random intervals until it looks far too much like blood splatter. For a moment, Jaskier’s heart drops to his shoes, afraid that once again this is all they will get from the spell, and although the flashes and random reaching are better than nothing, he’s terrified that even now they’re unable to break through whatever magic is keeping Geralt out of their reach.

That is, until Yennefer takes his hand with the one not holding the knife and tells him, “Now, _sing_.”

It should be embarrassing how quickly his mouth opens and his voice rises but it’s been ages since his heart has felt this light and if Yennefer thinks his singing will help the spell, will help them find Geralt, then Jaskier will sing until his throat bleeds and his teeth fall out. [He sings the song that’s been on his heart for days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oc1XuqzyGs), something that he himself didn’t write but that touched his heart all the same, even if it needed just a slight change in wording to be true.

After the first few lines, nothing seems to happen, until Jaskier hits the chorus, gently crooning with his eyes closed and heart open. Yennefer says nothing, but he can feel the change in the room as the magic reacts to his singing, humming as though it wishes to harmonize with him.

“ _White is the color_ ,” Jaskier sings, “ _of my true love’s hair_.”

“Keep going,” Ciri says softly and Jaskier does eagerly, putting his whole heart into the next verse as his love and longing nearly overwhelms him. His voice drops into a deeper octave, a gentler tone, and his soul trembles right along with it.

“ _I love my love and well he knows,  
I love the ground on where he goes,  
and still I hope that the time will come,  
still I hope that the time will come…”_

Jaskier opens his eyes and sees the spell bubbling across the map, sparking with silvery blue magic as Jaskier aches with how much of himself he throws into the song. He’s never done magic like this, but he prays to any god listening that it’s enough, that he’s doing it right. His voice nearly cracks with how much he wants it, how much he wishes for it, for the day when Geralt is _his_ again, the day when he is _Geralt’s_ again, the day when… when..

“ _…when he and I will be as one,  
when he and I will be as one.”_

Jaskier takes a breath and launches into the first verse again, desperate to give the magic enough time to break through whatever barrier is keeping it from honing in on Geralt the way it’s otherwise meant to.

_“White is the color of my true love’s hair,  
His face so soft and wondrous fair,  
the purest eyes and the gentlest hands,  
I love the ground whereon he stands,  
I love the ground whereon he stands.”_

Ciri exclaims, and Jaskier prays it’s from joy that the spell has worked and not from disappointment at it’s failure once again. He doesn’t dare open his eyes to find out, and pours just a bit more of himself into the final line, hoping beyond hope that this has worked and that finally, finally they’ve found him. He draws out the notes just to give himself more time before he must open his eyes, more time for the magic to work.

“ _White is the color of my true love’s hair._ ”

Jaskier opens his eyes and there, sinking into the paper as if to mark the spot on a treasure map is a small little rosette, nothing more than a speck the size of the nail on Jaskier’s pinky finger but still, that tiny smear brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

_They’ve found him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that... too much fluff? 
> 
> Also, I realized I never specified why Ciri calls Jaskier tata. It's supposed to be a Polish term for like dad or daddy? Please correct me if I'm wrong or using it weirdly.
> 
> The next chapter is gonna be a deviation on the norm that I'm still kinda struggling to get to my preferred 3k length. It's mostly written, I just have to work out some kinks in how it's gonna come together. Unfortunately, they need me to cover some extra shifts next week and I need to move out of my apartment at my college and finals are coming up, so I'm gonna try to have the next chapter out next week but if it's not out, don't freak, it's probably just a time issue rather than a hiatus situation. 
> 
> That said, thank you guys so much for your kudos and comments and questions, I love love love it. If you have a question, comment, or concern leave it below and I'll try to get back to you. There's a lot of things in my head that may not actually make it into the fic, so feel free to ask for clarification or if you're curious. There's not really a plot to spoil yet, anyway. If you liked it, consider dropping me a kudos too. 
> 
> Stay safe, everybody. We'll get back to "normal" soon.... (I hope)....


	4. Safe and Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. Graduating college and working at a grocery store in 2020 is it's own kind of hell. Worked 35 hours last week while trying to apply for jobs. 
> 
> I've had this chapter done for a while but didn't want to post it until I knew what was gonna come after it. I've got ~900 words of chapter 5 done now, so I feel confident posting this finally. Not 100% satisfied with it, but I am glad to be done with it so there's that.

Geralt wakes to the telltale chill and ache of cryo-freeze and recognizes none of the faces that surround him. He shivers, eyes darting from one face to another and suppressing a growl as they all stare back at him placidly. Still-frozen metal bites into the scabbed-over skin of his wrists as he shifts.

“Ved’nak,” the man Geralt assumes is the new commander spits, “So kind of you to finally join us this fine morning, did you enjoy your nap?”

Geralt sneers at the title, at the tone it’s spoken in, and says nothing.

This new commander, perhaps unaware of who exactly he’s dealing with, attempts to backhand Geralt for some assumed slight and draws back with pain when his bones crack against Geralt’s jaw. It hurts like hell, sure to leave a bruise across his cheekbone, but it’s worth it. He’ll have to remember this moment the next time Jaskier goes searching for ballad fodder.

One of the technicians step forward to tend to the commander, and one of the lackeys steps forward to jab Geralt in the side with a cattle prod. The electricity arcs through his body and send him to his knees, but it’s a manageable pain. Geralt even manages to grin as he bears through the aftershocks and staggers back to his feet.

The commander shoves away the young man tending to his hand, snatching up a riding crop from a nearby table and coming to stand before Geralt with a sneer to his face and in his voice. “You are lucky you are still useful, Ved’nak,” he says. “And even luckier that we have need of you now, otherwise I would have you broken and put back to sleep for this.”

Geralt merely hums once more, tired of this man’s dramatics and well used to what these people consider to be “breaking” him. They’re lucky he’s not willing to throw his own – and Jaskier’s, gods Jaskier’s – life away on the first escape opportunity that presented itself. He has no way of knowing just how long he’s been away from his family, and no way of knowing just how much they know about his disappearance, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’ll do everything in their power to find him.

It would have been easier to keep track of things and plan an escape if not for the fact that HYDRA has never sent Geralt outside of whatever base he’s been stored in. They’d tried it, once, back when he’d first been captured. The commander at the time had thought his fists and feet and fancy machines had unmade Geralt. Strapped him into what Little Bear called The Chair and hoped that the blood and sweat and tears was enough to rebuild the Witcher into a new toy for HYDRA to play with.

He’d been wrong.

Geralt knew what it was to be unmade and put back together in a way that goes beyond broken ribs and the watered-down Chaos of harnessed lightening. Geralt understood the pain of looking into a mirror and not recognizing the eyes staring back at you, or the face that frames them.

HYDRA had hoped that the Chair would be the final thing to push him over the edge, change the man into a beast into a _thing_.

Again, they’d been wrong.

The destruction of the chair and the annihilation of the room it had been kept in had forced HYDRA to look for a Plan B, some other way that Geralt could be of use to them. In the end, he’d gone from their future plaything to their current lab rat.

At first, the marks had healed almost as quickly as they could make them, but his slow heart rate made drawing blood difficult and painful. Now, his skin was littered with small pock marks from adrenaline shots to up his pulse and the long, thin needles they used to draw his blood. They didn’t try to break him quite as often as they had in the beginning, but they still did it.

Break his arm to see how long it takes to mend.

Slice his throat and measure how much blood he loses before he loses consciousness.

Cut off the tip of his finger to see how long it would take to grow back – if it ever did.

The worst was when he woke to scars he didn’t remember getting. The long, spindly ones that crossed his abdomen and chest in strange shapes or the very small lump behind his right ear. It made him shiver to think what they’d taken from him, what he’d given without knowing was now gone.

The scientists were like children, taking and taking and thinking it their due without truly understanding the cost.

The commanders, one after the other, like small boys who’d found their father’s uniforms and now fancied themselves a soldier of rank.

All of them in this building, in this compound, in the whole fucking organization, really, remind Geralt of children. Illusions of grandeur, power they think they can control but barely even understand… it reminds him of Ciri when she was still small enough to fit on his shoulder and tell him all about her day as if her bestiary lessons were the most important knowledge to ever enter human history.

The thought of Ciri warms the small part of his heart Geralt has long learned to lock away, tucked close and kept safe like a brooding hen covering her chicks. Some days he fears he will end up smothering the feeling but no matter how hard he tries to cover it, bury it, keep it hidden and therefore safe, it burrows deeper and billows out into catacombs and cave systems branching through his heart and his soul.

Massive, dangerous, but safe.

“Are you listening to me, Vel’nak?!” The commander snaps, striking him across the cheek with the riding crop in his undamaged hand. It stings, and Geralt flinches away from the strike, but the pain has become Geralt’s normal. “I just asked you a question, Vel’nak, and I expect an answer!”

Geralt, for the life of him, could not begin to tell you what the fucking man wants. He hums noncommittally anyway.

“Very well,” the commander says, somewhat appeased by what he must have assumed to be Geralt’s assent. Damn, these guys really are thicker than pig shit. “I have read your files, Vel’nak. I know what a failure you are, but in my mercy and in our need we offer you this second chance. I don’t think I need to tell you what will await you if you should fail once more.”

The commander glares at him, striking his palm with the crop in a way that Geralt assumes is meant to be intimidating and while, yes, the image is rather daunting, he can’t help but compare the image to a pissed off Yennefer. He shivers.

“Very good,” the commander says, mistaking Geralt’s shiver for fear of him. “We could have easily picked him up after the dip in the Hudson, of course, but the Avengers were crawling all over the place with their filth and we can’t risk them catching a trail and ruining what we’ve been building right under their noses. And although your track record does not lend you any credibility, the higher ups are willing to let bygones be bygones so long as you cooperate.”

Geralt growls under his breath, suddenly realizing what is missing from the room. The cells nearby are empty, the cryo-pods both vacant though one is still open and steaming slightly as it finishes thawing. It could be nothing, a simple mission, a training exercise, a punishment….

But no.

The commander scoffs. “The only one of your kind that ever proved to actually be of use to us, and yet he still managed to fail right when it counted.”

HYDRA lost the Winter Soldier.

_Fuck._

Ever since HYDRA had pulled him into this hellscape, he’d had just one familiar face. The one face that never changed no matter how many times HYDRA put him away in cold storage, no matter how many technicians or commanders or scientists Geralt crushed in his rage, in his pain, in his fear.

The commanders and technicians called the man Soldat, soldier, weapon, _thing_. He’d heard the whispers of fear from the upper floors, the murmurs of delight after a mission gone well as the Soldier was packed away into his cell with a pat on the head and a gun to his throat. The technicians liked to believe that their toy soldier didn’t have feelings. That he had had all humanity beaten out of him like the Witchers of old had done to their progeny, but Geralt knew better than all of them.

Geralt knew that their soldier was not a weapon or an item. Nor was he quite like the other HYDRA lackeys that would filter through the base as they moved from one mission to another. Those idiots reeked of arrogance and hatred, while the soldier had never smelled of anything other than terror and never-ending pain.

Geralt blamed Jaskier’s poetic influence for it, but nonetheless liked to think of the man as something of a circus bear. One that had been stolen away from their home and their family and trained to be something they weren’t. Ripped away from their natural place in the world, chained and beaten and starved until they performed the way their masters wished. And then, of course, having the pain repeated once more when the performance wasn’t quite good enough.

That the bear had turned on its masters and broken its chains to run free did not surprise Geralt.

“So, tell me, Vel’nak,” the commander says, lifting the crop onto his shoulder. “Where is Soldat?”

Geralt smiles, a grim, broken thing that flashes his bloody, too-sharp canines…

And says nothing.

* * *

As a rule, and by design, Witchers are resistant to magic.

Still, Geralt cannot help the clutch of dread as the commander steps away from his bleeding body and resignedly calls for a mage. “If he won’t give us what we want,” the commander says to a sympathetic soldier as he wipes the blood from his boot, “I suppose we’ll simply have to take it.”

It takes a truly powerful mage to read Geralt’s mind, but any hedge witch worth her salt could skim his surface thoughts. The mind is fickle that way, the clash of chaos and logic making magic — and the resistance to it — unpredictable in untrained hands.

Geralt would have sooner let a teenaged Ciri rifle through his brain than any mage associated with HYDRA.

Geralt swallows, tongue darting through bloodied teeth to lick nervously at bruised lips. He snarls wordlessly towards the floor and regrets it only a little bit when the soldier near him rewards the gesture with a jolt of electricity in his thigh. He slumps over where they’ve chained him to the floor, shifting to ease the strain on his no-doubt broken ribs. His entire body feels like one big bruise, Witcher healing no match for the determination of the half-dozen soldiers crammed into the cell they’ve locked him in.

The pain helps, though. Gives him something to focus on so that he can heard all thoughts of Ciri and Yennefer and Jaskier into the hidden crevices of his mind, tucked safe with all the secrets HYDRA failed at beating out of him and all the ones they doesn’t even know to dig for.

He blames this distraction for his surprise when an all too familiar voice enters the room.

“You called for a mage, commander?”

Geralt looks up and frowns, brows pinching as his eyes dart over the woman being escorted into the room. He shifts, trying to balance himself so that he can just make out her features through his half-swollen eyes. She’s dressed in a similar uniform to the others, but her posture doesn’t quite fit the hard lines and drab colors. Her hair is a baffling shade of blonde, and her brown eyes are somewhat hidden behind a pair of thick glasses.

Geralt’s never seen the woman in his life, but he’d know that voice anywhere.

And, though he can barely catch it over the stench of his own blood, he knows that scent.

Lilacs and gooseberries.

_Yennefer_.

Yennefer – though gods only know what name she’s stuck to that strange-looking face – smiles shyly as the commander greets her, and if Geralt didn’t know better he’d be somewhat off put by the assessing glance that runs over his trembling form. Yen’s seen him in worse shape, but it’s not every day he’s chained to the floor and mauled by overzealous nutjobs.

_Geralt,_ a voice hisses in his ear, and Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes at the tone. _Must you always find yourself on the wrong end of every blade you come across?_

_Apologies, Yen_ , he thinks, crafting the thoughts like a snowball and lobbing it towards her. _Next time I’m imprisoned and tortured, I’ll be sure to be on my very best behavior_.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, commander,” Yennefer says, a wry smile flittering across the edges of her mouth as her fingers twiddle together. Her posture is purposefully small, weight shifting in a nervous manner to match the slight shakiness of her voice. She’s playing the new recruit, that much is obvious, someone overlooked and easy to write off. As she speaks to the commander, the scent of lilacs and gooseberries steadily begins to grow stronger.

_Please tell me you aren’t alone_ , Geralt thinks in her direction, slumping to the floor once more to cover the way he turns his hands in his bonds, easing the sting of dirt and sweat on fresh cuts and bruises. _There are more people in this base that you would think on first glance. Squirrely bastards tend to like digging down._

_Of course not, darling,_ Yennefer purrs, shifting ever so slightly to wink at him as she steps away from the commander and closer to Geralt himself. _This may hurt a bit, but do try to make it seem truly excruciating. Little sadists really want a show._

Geralt grunts, shaking his head and shifting against his bonds to make it seem as though he’s shying away from the new threat in the room. _Fuck that,_ he thinks, _just get me the hell out of here._ Yennefer smiles, nodding ever so slightly as her hands raise and visible tendrils of magic swirl around her fingers.

“He may scream,” she says to the commander, a warning and a question laced in her tone. The commander huffs, muttering about the cries of beasts being music to his ears as he gestures for her to continue.

The second the magic hits Geralt’s face he tenses, gritting his teeth and groaning. Goddammit, it really does hurt like a bitch, but as the magic washes over him and into his mind he welcomes the ache of power and energy and chaos filling his body in scalding hot waves. Like lancing a boil or purging a wound, sometimes the hurt comes before the healing.

But it does come, slowly creeping down his spine. Cooling ripples of icy cold relief soothing the worst of the bruising in his bones, the soreness of his muscles. Yennefer leaves the weeping wounds be, doesn’t dare touch the visible bruises or scrapes in case one of the soldiers notice.

Geralt heaves a deep, clear breath between his shouts – now entirely fabricated performances of pain and agony, as the healing magic finds fewer and fewer things to mend and soothe. He’ll need to sleep for a long, long time to let the healing stick, but it’ll be worth it.

The commander notices Geralt’s cries dying down ever so slightly and steps forward, pleased. “Well done, witch,” he says.

Yennefer makes a show of looking winded from exertion as she staggers back a few steps, magic dispersing into the air. Her exhaustion is mostly a ruse to downplay her power level and expertise, but Geralt feels a prick of concern, nonetheless. Yennefer is a sorceress of matchless talent, but emergency healing of that caliber is no small feat.

A soldier steps forward to support her when she staggers and is the first to fall when a wave of magic ripples across the room. The commander doesn’t collapse, but he does sway in place, eyes vacant and mind no doubt far, far away.

“God, that man gives me the creeps,” she says, shivering dramatically as she comes closer, running her fingers over the worst of Geralt’s wounds. “Darling, this place is a nightmare. What happened to the good old days of infiltrating royal courts to break you out of palace dungeons? At least then the food was palatable.”

Geralt huffs as Yennefer’s magic cuts through the chains holding him down. “I apologize, Yen,” he says dryly. “Next time I book a stay in a torture chamber, I’ll be sure to check the reviews first.”

Yennefer snickers, but a subtle tension around her shoulders begins to loosen. “See that you do, Geralt,” she says. She seems to give him a moment to collect himself, flitting over to one of the soldiers and rifling through his pockets. As she goes, she continues to complain absentmindedly, reminding Geralt of her presence as she moves about.

“And make sure they’re competent while you’re at it,” she says, “Honestly, these people are imbeciles and their mages are dog shit. They wouldn’t know a cure from a curse and their wards are a joke.” She pauses. “Admittedly, even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

Geralt makes an inquisitive noise when Yennefer doesn’t continue, and she looks up at him, holding a ring of keys in her hands. “Their attempt at recreating Nilfgaardian magic was just enough to screw with every spell I tried to use to find you,” she explains, face pained with the memory of repeated failure. “I’ll never understand how they managed to keep you hidden from me for nearly forty years.” 

Geralt frowns as she brings the keys to him. His mind spins as the shackles come undone around his wrists and pull years – _years?_ – worth of scabbed-over blood along with them. The wound weeps, and Geralt feels his heart pulse in his throat.

He looks up at Yennefer, waits for her to meet his eyes.

“Yen,” he croaks, voice hoarse from years – _years?!_ – of disuse compounded by hours of screaming. “It’s been – _I’ve_ been – _forty years?!?”_

The world spins, unbearable relief and unfathomable pain and the pure shock of the situation spiraling within his mind. His vision narrows and shrinks as his eyes seem to swell even further, blurring the edges of the world into blackness, into nothingness. Geralt’s heart stutters as his lungs sob for breath and he manages to take one heaving, gasping breath before the world fades away.

Geralt collapses.

Yennefer frowns.

“Oh, darling,” she says, brushing his hair from his face, gently dabbing at fresh tears as they mix with old blood. “What have they done to you?”

* * *

That night, after sealing the doors and stripping the servers of anything that looks useful, she watches the life drain from that HYDRA base, fueling the flames of a fire that grows and grows and grows beyond what anyone would consider natural.

She watches the building turn to ember, and ember turn to ash, and when the air is silent with the sound of death, she stomps her foot just the once. The earth splinters beneath her and a cracked-open, gaping maw races towards the burnt-out base, swallowing the ash and soot and stench of boiled blood, leaving no trace of the blight that had once been.

Later that night, after bearing the heavy burden of a far too light body through a portal into the waiting wings of a songbird, she watches the tides surge within her friend. He turns to her and smiles with the force of a thousand suns, tears running down his face like shooting stars across the curve of a crescent moon.

The Avengers had eventually agreed to let Yennefer take care of the mission herself – though there would have been nothing they could have done to actually stop her – but had asked in return that Geralt be brought back to the Tower. Tony had wanted healers and nurses to be on stand-by, but all three had taken offence at the idea that they didn’t know how to care for their White Wolf. Jaskier was fit to spitting at the thought, but he’s the picture of tranquility, now, as he runs a damp cloth over the dried blood and dabs at still-oozing wounds.

She watches him trace every new scar, first with long, calloused fingers before he presses small kisses against the faint lines and jagged edges. She watches as thin trails of salty tears run along the ridges of what must be a poorly stitched surgical scar.

On Geralt’s other side, Ciri lays her head against the White Wolf’s breast, reassuring herself that his heart beats, slow but present. Her hand stays tucked against his sternum, fingers tracing the pristine edge of a broad bandage as her eyes track the slow and steady rise and fall of his breath. With every exhale, she relaxes just a bit more. 

Yennefer herself sits towards the foot of the bed, and though she knows the Avengers are waiting for an update, she cannot bear to lose sight of him, lest he once more vanish without a trace. The flash drive in her pocket can wait, she decides, watching as Ciri eventually falls asleep against her father’s chest. Jaskier isn’t far behind, tucking his head on Geralt’s other shoulder and melting into a puddle of relief. 

She resolves herself to staying awake, keeping watch, but as the hours tick by her exhausted shoulders dip until she’s sprawled across Geralt’s legs, deep in slumber.

Hours later, the sun crests over the horizon, but none of the four are awake to see it. The rosy fingers of dawn stroke across their glistening tear tracks before soothing over the bruises beneath their eyes. The goddess smiles and brings a painted finger to her lips, shushing the songbirds who come to greet her.

_Let them sleep,_ she says, _and when they wake, may they do so together, knowing that no dream could ever be sweeter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's.... that? I dunno man. I dunno.


	5. Let Me Come Back To Your Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE!!! (although Lord knows some days I wish I weren't)
> 
> So much has happened since we last spoke, and so much of it I really don't want to even think about, so I'll just let you know that this chapter's title comes from the song Hunter by Heather Dale which I think has PEAK Geraskier energy. Give it a listen if you'd like, Heather Dale is the bomb. 
> 
> Also, this chapter is nearly 4k and I'm almost done with the next one. Now that my family is done travelling (don't come for us for breaking Quarantine, we took every precaution and most of the trips we took were unavoidable) I've got all kinds of motivation to write, so, hopefully we'll be back to somewhat more frequent uploads.

When Jaskier wakes the next morning, he is not the first, but the eyes he longs to see remain closed, so he nestles closer to Geralt’s neck for a moment and sighs. Though the Avengers had agreed to leave them be for the first night, they each make time to visit, and Jaskier lets Yennefer do all the talking for once in his life as she updates the Captain on the successful rescue and has soft-spoken, bone-chillingly casual small talk with the Black Widow.

Tony comes in a few times but rarely stays for long, his already precarious attention divided amongst the search for Barnes, the analysis of the data Yennefer brought, and a number of other things that Jaskier himself could never even dream of. He makes numerous offers to send in nurses and doctors to check on Geralt’s condition, but Yennefer waves his concerns away each time.

“Witchers heal astoundingly quickly,” she says, “so it shouldn’t take much longer for him to recover from whatever wounds my magic didn’t already heal.”

Tony tries to insist, and the sheer force of his personality and the depth of his concern eventually sways Yennefer to allow Bruce to do a basic check-up, although the man himself continues to insist that he’s, “not really that kind of doctor.” Jaskier watches as the soft-spoken man handles Geralt’s injuries with the patience and steady hands that can only be born from years of experience. “And it really doesn’t look like I’d be much help anyway, all of his wounds look well-tended and practically almost healed.”

“He may sleep for another day or so,” Yennefer says, perched at the end of the surprisingly large bed the Avengers supplied for them to use in lieu of a cot or hospital bed. Her eyes are dark, and her fingers shake slightly as she runs them over the clean bandage Bruce has just finished winding around Geralt’s calf. “But when I woke this afternoon most of his bruises were gone and his wounds nearly mended, so that’s a good sign.”

“He’s not healing so much as he is resting. Recuperating. Rejuvenating, even,” Jaskier says. “A Witcher’s body is designed to outrun, outlast, and outsmart any beast that they come across. He can go weeks without food and days without water and never even think to complain. He can go without good, restful sleep for almost half a year and make do with catnaps and deep meditations. But once he is safe and the battle is over and the danger has passed, a witcher can eat more than you could possibly imagine, drink enough to kill an elephant, and sleep like the dead.”

Jaskier smiles, lifting a hand to run across Geralt’s brow. His cheeks are somewhat sunken, and his hair is in desperate need of a wash, but Jaskier has never seen anything more lovely than the soft flush of life slowly returning to Geralt’s angular features. He runs his fingers over the bridge of Geralt’s slightly crooked nose, tracing the kink from a centuries-old break. “The first year I followed Geralt to Kaer Morhen, he slept almost as deep as this. I didn’t know what to do with myself when he didn’t wake for nearly a week. The stress of keeping me alive on the way up, he’d said, but I figured it was just the relief of finally being somewhere truly safe.”

Yennefer chuckles. “I’ll bet Vesemir had no trouble putting you to work, regardless,” she says, laughing.

Jaskier nods, smiling. “Indeed,” he says, and then sighs. “I miss the old bastard,” he says, “Do you think the wolves will forgive me for staying away so long?”

“Uncle Lambert might be a dick about it,” Ciri supplies with a groggy voice from Geralt’s other side. “But the others probably understand. Last time I was there, Uncle Eskel told me he saw the White Wolf’s ghost hanging over your shoulders whenever he looked at you, and Grampa Vesemir always hated that haunted look in your eye whenever you’d go wandering the keep. He was worried you’d become just another one of the ghosts that haunt the keep, just disappear into the stone walls without Geralt there to keep you grounded.”

Jaskier is silent, because it’s true. There had been many an evening where he’d lost whole days to wandering the halls, needing to be herded mindlessly to meals and then tucked back into bed like a wayward child.

“They forgive you, little lark,” Yennefer supplies, pulling him from his thoughts, “and they understand better than most how painful it can be to live in the shadows of that which has been lost.”

Jaskier sighs, knowing that they’re right, that whatever they may say the wolves of Kaer Morhen took care of their own – even, and perhaps especially, the somewhat-human bard who’d ended up counted among them. “I couldn’t stand to stink up the keep with my misery,” he says, “but it will be good to fill the halls with song again.”

Ciri giggles, Yennefer sighs pleasantly, and Jaskier jumps ever so slightly as his body lurches alongside the heave of Geralt’s chest as he takes a deep, gasping breath.

“Darling?” Jaskier whispers, straightening up to sit next to Geralt, waiting with bated breath as Geralt’s eyes flicker before slipping open in golden slivers.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, dear heart!” Jaskier says brightly, eyes stinging as he buries his face in Geralt’s chest. Ciri crowds close as well, and Jaskier can just about make out the rustle of fabric as Yennefer stands and comes closer to the head of the bed.

Unnoticed in the commotion, Bruce slips out the door, heading to inform the others of the new development.

“Good morning, you brute,” the sorceress says, “how are you feeling?”

Geralt grunts, but it’s not a pained sound, and he has no trouble shifting so to bring his arms up and around his family, holding them closer to himself. “Better now,” he says after taking a deep breath, “although I imagine the same cannot be said for our mutual acquaintances.”

Yennefer huffs smugly, leaning down to ruffle through Geralt’s hair before brushing a few stray locks out of his face, seeing as his own hands are otherwise occupied. “Who do you take me for, darling,” she scolds, “there was never any question.”

Geralt chuckles at that, Ciri and Jaskier bouncing slightly on his chest. Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s shoulder rises to his head, fingers sifting through tawny locks. “I’m sorry, my love,” he whispers, breathing deeply to catch the scent of sadness and contentment and joy that battle for dominance in Jaskier’s scent. “Yen told me I’ve been gone for far too long.”

Jaskier sniffs, shifting away just enough to be able to look Geralt in the eye, and then further so that he can bring his hands up to frame Geralt’s face. Geralt turns quickly to place a kiss on Jaskier’s palm and then simply can’t stand to stop. His hands, his wrists, his fingers, they’re all too precious to go another moment without being adored by Geralt’s eager lips.

“Practically a lifetime,” Jaskier confirms, smiling over at Ciri’s teary, joy-filled face. “But I’m sure you’ll make it up to us in no time, right sweetheart?”

Ciri shifts to a seated position, rubbing her face with her fists and nodding. “It’ll take a lot,” she says playfully. “Maybe even a dog.”

Geralt laughs riotously, reaching up to ruffle Ciri’s hair.

“I’m not sure how Roach would feel about a puppy,” he says, and Yennefer laughs in agreement.

“It’s been centuries,” she says, “and the poor thing still barely tolerates being stabled anywhere near Scorpion.”

“She’s quite fond of Pegasus,” Jaskier supplies, distracted from his exploration of Geralt’s face by the conversation, and somewhat indignant in the defense of his own darling steed.

“I’d say that says more about your tenaciously energetic mare than it does Roach’s social skills,” Yennefer says, smiling, “but Roach has always been a soft touch for children of every species. If she can handle Eskel’s endless goat-spawn butting around her paddock with grace – and minimal nipping – I’m sure a bumbling puppy would be no issue.”

Geralt groans, tilting his head back in defeat. “Whose side are you on anyway?!” He grunts, but his mock-offence can only last so long in the longed-for company of his laughing family.

“I’m only teasing, tata,” Ciri says after they’ve all calmed down into some modicum of comfortable silence.

Geralt hums and nods and runs his fingers through her hair – as wild and unruly as it’s always been whenever it grows long and free. “Tell me, cub,” he says, “what have you been up to while I was… gone?”

The question brings the energy of the room down, and Jaskier’s breath catches at the reminder. Ciri takes a moment before her tense muscles relax and she begins to catch Geralt up on everything he’s missed, starting with something more recent before jumping back and forth in time and place, stories falling out of her mouth one after another. Geralt laughs and smiles and gasps where appropriate, nodding along to her words as his hand stays in her hair, slowly detangling the events of the past few decades. She speaks of monsters slain and friends made and how annoying the internet has become when trying to find jobs that aren’t simply over-imaginative teenagers eager to brag about their local cryptid.

When she’s finished, mouth pursed as she tries to think of anything else interesting, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “And you, little lark?” he says softly. 

Jaskier considers making up a rousing few decades of heroics, maidens saved and monsters slain, the good name of Jaskier the Bard once again painted across the pages of history. He considers lying flat out, telling Geralt of the songs and ballads and stories that consumed his time, made the years feel like mere minutes. He considers fudging the truth just a little bit. Or maybe just a tiny bit.

Or maybe… maybe not at all.

“It was unbearable without you, darling,” Jaskier says after a moment, lilting voice struck dull and flat by the heft of this confession. “Some days I woke up without your hair in my mouth or your hand on my back and could barely leave the bed. Some days I would look up from my desk and call out for you, and for a moment I would think you were just around the corner, and it nearly broke me every time you weren’t.”

Jaskier takes a breath, avoiding looking into Geralt’s eyes and he toys with the end of his sleeve. “I left the keep. Took up a position teaching, which is probably unsurprising, but at least it was tests and papers and giving out knowledge this time instead of… well. You know as well as I that the market for my skills in that front have changed quite a bit in the last few years.”

Geralt hums, relieved.

“Yes, yes, I know how you feel on the matter darling,” Jaskier tuts, humming. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the airing of the grievances!” Jaskier slumps ever so slightly, “It was ever so… quiet without you, my love. As if my very heart had barred the windows and closed up shop. My very soul was cold and barren without you there to keep it warm and full of joy.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs, mouth soft against Jaskier’s temple. “If it helps, I thought of you every moment. Every waking second, I wondered how you were doing, if you were worried. Every dream I had was of you three.”

“It’s not your fault, darling,” Jaskier sniffles. “Though Lambert and Aiden may have something to say on the matter of nearly four decades of doing your chores.”

Geralt groans at the thought, Melitele save him from grouchy younger brothers.

His response is cut off by a gentle knock at the door, and though her brows furrow in confusion, Yennefer calls out to let whoever it is in.

The man that walks through the door is not one that Geralt has ever met, but his posture and build are familiar in a way that’s hard to pin down. “Apologies for interrupting,” the man says as he walks into the room, trailed by a redheaded woman and a pair of brunets. “Bruce told us you were awake.”

The mousier of the two brunets looks up at that, shoulders purposefully curled to look smaller as he smiles at Geralt awkwardly. “Sorry if we’re intruding,” he says, “but, uh…”

“Capsicle couldn’t keep it in his pants,” the other brunet says frankly, shoulders loose and stride languid as he steps over towards Jaskier’s side of the bed. “Whoa,” he says, ducking back and forth as he stares at Geralt, whose own eyes flick back and forth to track the movement. “That’s some real nine lives, cat’s eyes shit you’ve got going on, Ger-bear.”

Geralt blinks, looking from the brunet down to Jaskier, who snorts softly in unsurprised amusement. “Geralt, this is Tony,” he says, “I taught him at MIT for a few semesters during my pining professor period. He’s the one who found your medallion and called me up.”

Geralt’s shoulders soften, and when he turns back to Tony his face is slightly more open. “Thank you,” he says, nodding at the other man.

Tony waves it away and goes to introduce the other newcomers in the room. The name Steve Rogers sounds infuriatingly familiar, and Geralt wracks his brain to think where he could have heard the name or seen the face but comes up empty.

“Geralt,” the Captain says after the introductions have been made, “I know that you’ve just woken up but I have to ask; while you were with HYDRA, did you ever hear of a Bucky Barnes?”

Before Geralt can answer, the Widow supplies, “he may have been referred to as the Winter Soldier.”

Geralt frowns, glancing from the Captain to the Widow, suddenly wary of these strangers. He does not know them, does not trust them, and though they helped return him to his songbird, he has no idea what they want with Little Bear.

Jaskier, likely sensing his indecision, sits up and scoots further back to the head of the bed, his hand falling into Geralt’s unkempt silver hair. “It’s alright, my love,” he says in a language that hasn’t been taught since the birth of the last dragon, “you can trust these people with whatever knowledge you have. They want to find Barnes so that they can help him, nothing more.”

Geralt hums the once, a long, contemplative sound that causes Jaskier to snicker. “I trust you, songbird,” he replies in the same tongue, “but they will never find the man they seek.”

“Do you know where he is, darling?” Jaskier asks with a teasing lilt.

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t know what all HYDRA did to him, but nevertheless Little Bear is a Witcher, and since he has no school to claim him and care for him….”

Jaskier bursts into riotous laughter, tugging on the ends of Geralt’s hair in his mirth. “But of course, darling,” he says in English, the assembled Avengers perking up at the sound of words they can actually understand. “Where else would a Witcher go to come in from the cold?”

* * *

“Okay, so, to clarify,” Tony says later that day, hands spread as if he’s visualizing all the bits and pieces of information that have been revealed to him over the past half-hour or so. “While hanging around with HYDRA, you got chummy with your cellmate – the only slightly mentally stable Super Solider/Witcher known as James Buchanan Barnes – and decided that if he ever busted out, the best place to send him would be home for the holidays?!”

Geralt takes a minute to parse through that statement before nodding. “It seemed the best place for him,” he says. “Knew I probably couldn’t get word to the Wolves to be expecting company unless I broke out too, so I gave him the codes and told him how to walk The Killer and had to hope that that would be enough.”

“And how do we know they won’t just shoot on sight?” Natasha supplies, purposefully droll as if to mask how nervous the idea has suddenly made her. “Would be a real shitty homecoming.”

“Only a Witcher could have told him how to walk The Killer,” Ciri muses, “and no matter who spotted him on the trail, they’d all report to Vesemir before doing anything. Humans haven’t tried to storm the keep since the treaties were signed.”

“Witchers are damn paranoid, though,” Jaskier hums, turning towards Yennefer who has already stood up and gone over to rifle through her bag. “Might not be a bad idea to send a message, make sure they know what to be on the lookout for.”

“Geralt’s absence will have them twitchy,” Yennefer agrees as she fiddles with the xenovox linked to Kaer Morhen. After a few seconds, the box crackles like popping static and Vesemir’s gruff voice fills the room.

“Good timing,” Vesemir says in lieu of greeting, which is highly unusual for the typically chivalrous Witcher. “Got something you may want to weigh in on creeping towards the keep. Thought it might be Geralt, but the hair’s too dark, and the build too broad for any of the Witchers not already up top.”

Yennefer huffs, “well, what do you know,” she responds, “I was just about to tell you to keep an eye out for one such figure. He’s a Witcher, of sorts, but definitely not the type we’re used to, coming via invitation of the White Wolf himself.”

Vesemir is silent.

“We found him,” Jaskier says softly, knowing that his voice will still be picked up by the xenovox.

Vesemir takes a shaky breath, the tinny quality of the xenovox cracking through the air. Still, he says nothing.

“Oh, come off it, old man,” Geralt grouches from the bed, “I’m as whole and hale and hearty as can be expected, and no closer to death’s door than you’ve ever been.”

The xenovox cracks once more over Vesemir’s booming laughter, and though Geralt can’t really see the older wolf, he can clearly imagine the tension slowly leaving his shoulders. “Good to hear it, Wolf,” he says, “been damn quiet around here without you and your songbird flitting about the place. Be good to have your grouchy ass back on the chore roster. What’s this I hear about you sending a stray our way?”

Geralt glances at Jaskier but doesn’t comment on the mention of Jaskier’s absence from the keep. “That’ll be Little Bear,” he says, “some right bastards turning knock-off Nilfgaardian tricks tried their hand at recreating the mutagens and the Trials and the training and came up with him. He’s been under their thumb for, what,” he looks at Steve, “sixty years?”

“Seventy.”

“Right, yeah, seventy years. Treat him gentle, but don’t make him jumpy. Keep Lambert locked up if you can help it.”

Vesemir snickers, and there’s a far-off sound of a yelp and a scuffle before he says, “will do, pup. Sounds to me like he’s had a time of it. Dangerous, but mostly just scared, am I right?”

Geralt hums, but affirmatively.

“We’ll put Eskel and Coen on welcoming duty, then. Last report says he’ll be at the keep by sundown. No chance you could be here before then just in case things go sideways?”

Geralt glances at Yennefer, who nods. “Should be good to portal in,” she says.

“Wait, wait, wait,” the Captain interrupts, stepping forward a few steps and gesturing expansively. “You can’t just tell us you know where Bucky is and then just,” he struggles to find the words, “portal away to wherever the heck this Witcher Castle of yours is.”

Geralt blinks. “Why not?”

“You’re still injured,” Natasha says, voice smooth in an attempt to commandeer the conversation. “The Winter Soldier was HYDRA, and now with SHIELD on the bench, it falls to the Avengers to deal with any HYDRA-related goings-on. You can’t just tell us where a top-level ex-HYDRA agent is and expect us to let you run off after him on your own.”

Geralt frowns, piecing together exactly how much and which parts of the woman’s statement had been true. Ciri picks up on this too, frowning. “You can come with us,” she says after an inquisitive glance towards Yennefer, “if you would like to make sure he has a warm welcome.”

And so Jaskier, Yennefer, Geralt, and Ciri walk through a swirling portal into Kaer Morhen’s courtyard followed by Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson, and Clint Barton. Doctor Banner, understandably, had declined to come along as he was unsure how the Other Guy would react to the portal’s magic and someone had to hang around to man the fort. 

The group meets Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir, and Coen in the Main Hall and any modicum of solemnity within the group is immediately destroyed when Lambert and Eskel both run at Geralt, tackling him into a hug that – yeah, no, that’s mostly tackle. The three of them go rolling across the floor, growling and grumbling and tussling like wolf cubs. Vesemir sighs.

“I apologize for the display,” he says to their guests as they look upon the spectacle in baffled awe. “My pups are, unfortunately, beyond help.”

“You say as if you weren’t the one to teach them that,” Yennefer says, sliding closer towards Coen to avoid the tussling trio. Ciri giggles.

Jaskier sighs. “Grandmaster Vesemir,” he says with an overdramatic flourish of the hand, “May I introduce to you, the Avengers,” he goes down the line giving name and superhero alias, before coming to Tony, “and my dear friend Anthony Stark – Iron Man – who I am sure I wrote to you about at least once in the time I was away.”

Vesemir hums, acknowledging them all with a brusque nod before whistling sharply. The wolves on the floor immediately halt their play fight and go lopping towards their teacher. “These are my boys,” Vesemir says. “Geralt you know, but these two hooligans are Eskel and Lambert. The other is not of my school but still of Kaer Morhen, Coen of the Griffins. You’ll meet others if you hang around, but these are my best behaved. If you can believe it.”

The Avengers all seem to relax somewhat in the face of the informal greetings, even laughing slightly at the older Witcher’s joke. “Thank you,” the Captain says, “for welcoming us into your home.”

Vesemir grunts at the thanks, turning towards Geralt with a welcoming smile and an open spread of his arms that the other Witcher eagerly ducks into. Vesemir, gruff though he may be, has always given the best hugs. “It’s good to have you back, my boy,” he says into Geralt’s hair, just loud enough for the assembled Witchers to overhear. “You smell of healing magics, are you well?”

“Better now,” Geralt murmurs. “So much better now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the chapter title comes from Hunter by Heather Dale.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns feel free to leave them in the lovely box below and also hit me up with a kudos if you'd like. 
> 
> I apologize in advance for the TERRIBLE way I'm handling the Avengers characters in this and future chapters. Especially Steve. They're just kinda... there, for now. There's just... so many of them in each scene. If I give them all things to say it becomes SO MUCH DIALOGUE.... Hopefully it's not too terrible. Let me know if you have any suggestions on how to fix that.


	6. I'm Only Human, That's All It Takes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hi, hello wonderful people I apologize for the five month hiatus on this fic, it's been... well, it's been a trip. The world's exploded no less than seven times since last we spoke but I'm still here and you're still here so I guess we'll just have to get through this together, huh. 
> 
> Anyway, this story has been giving me grief for the entire five months since I last updated. I realized I'd written myself into a hole. There was too much plot happening at once and too many goddamn characters in one place just standing around and Jaskier. Would. Not. Stop. Monologuing. This boy has so many opinions. He wants to deliver All the Exposition. If there's a philosophical question anywhere, this boy wants to jump on it and beat it with a stick until Vesemir admits that Witchers Deserve Love or some nonsense like that. I tried to re-write it like three times but no matter what I tried it was a mess so we're just gonna power through this until we can get to something I can actually handle in an organized way. I have maybe 1-2 more chapters already written out but I'm still trying to figure out how I wanna end this part of the story. I'm thinking of making it a series, actually, so if I can get it to work it should be something to look forward to. Maybe.
> 
> Welcome to the Madness!

After the introductions, the Witchers make their excuses and wander off into unknown corners of the keep to handle a variety of chores that need doing. “We’ll put your guest in the room below yours,” Eskel says to Geralt as he and Lambert leave. “And the others should be nearly done airing out your rooms, too.”

Geralt clasps him on the shoulder, waving away Ciri and Yennefer as both head towards their own rooms, knowing that – though they mean well – a posse of Witchers are far more likely to stumble upon some unfortunate magical malady than actual do any sprucing up, especially with Triss not around to maintain the stasis wards.

Vesemir leads the group towards a cluster of large chairs and over-stuffed couches that circle around the fireplace in the Great Hall. Geralt sinks gratefully into one such chair and is unsurprised by bard-shaped blanket that drapes over his lap.

“Will you be staying the night?” Vesemir asks, settling into his favored chair.

The Avengers glance among themselves. “I doubt it,” the Captain says. “We plan to take Bucky back to the Tower with us once he’s arrived.”

Geralt flinches ever so slightly, the hand he’s draped over Jaskier’s knee digging into the soft fabric of his pants. Jaskier hums lightly, bringing his own hand up to cover Geralt’s.

Everything within Jaskier rails at the idea of the Avengers taking Geralt’s friend away from him, but Geralt catches his eye and shakes his head ever so slightly, so he bites his tongue and hunkers further down into Geralt’s stalwart embrace.

They sit mostly in silence for a moment, the Avengers whispering between themselves at a volume they think gives them privacy.

No such thing, in a keep full of Witchers.

“The mutagen formulas used to make the original Witchers were destroyed long ago,” Vesemir says after a moment, “I’m afraid we will be of no help to you, there.”

Clint looks up, shocked and slightly chastised.

“Witcher hearing is nothing to scoff at, lad,” the older Witcher explains. “On a good day, I could probably hear a mouse sneeze from halfway down the mountain.” He frowns, tone turned musing and dry in a way that Jaskier knows means he’s teasing. “Might could smell it fart, too.”

The Avengers, unsurprisingly, don’t know what to say to that.

Fortunately, they’re saved from doing so by Lambert swanning back into the room. “Lucky that Triss and Yennefer came along to ward the honeymoon suite,” he teases, jabbing at Geralt’s shoulder as he leans over the back of his chair.

Jaskier has enough shame within him to flush ever so slightly, but Geralt just grins wolfishly. “Lucky indeed,” he says, “not sure I could live another decade dealing with the stench from your chamberpot.”

Lambert snorts, leaning forward to ruffle Geralt’s hair. “Should be thanking whatever fed-up shmuck finally got around to inventing indoor plumbing. Came close to kissing Triss’ feet once she brought that little slice of heaven into the keep.”

Jaskier hums in full agreement. Despite appearances, Kaer Morhen was not quite the ancient monument to days gone by that it might have been had it not become home to a fussy bard and a handful of refined and resourceful sorceresses. Triss, Yennefer, Jaskier, and Ciri had all had a hand in bringing only the best bits of the evolving human world back to the keep. Between them they’d seen to the Keep’s plumbing and electricity, making sure that a solid wi-fi signal pulsed from every stone and that whatever gaming console Lambert or Aiden ferreted back to the keep continued to run smoothly.

Some rooms – mostly those frequented by Vesemir or some of the more old-fashioned witchers – were still lit by oil lamps and massive fireplaces, but even then it was a matter of taste rather than necessity. Geralt himself kept a handful of lightly scented candles scattered around his and Jaskier’s room for the days when his eyes couldn’t take another second of the sometimes-too-bright artificial lights.

With a thoughtful hum, Jaskier drapes a hand over those beautiful golden eyes and sets his mouth as close to Geralt’s ear as he can. “Alright, love?” 

Geralt hums, relaxing against Jaskier’s palm.

When he looks back up, Vesemir and the Avengers are gone, but Lambert hasn’t moved from his position sprawled over Geralt’s shoulders.

“They went to the kitchen,” he says with an unrepentant, shit-eating grin, “Vesemir roped them into dinner duty, which is nice, but he left me here with you sappy idiots, which was less nice.”

Jaskier snorts.

* * *

Vesemir puts the Avengers to work chopping vegetables and kneading dough while he himself sets to work butchering the venison from last week’s hunt. Witchers can put away an ungodly amount of food, healing ones even more so, and with the addition of the Avengers and Geralt’s return, the number of mouths to feed has nearly tripled. Fortunately, the kitchens of Kaer Morhen are more than up to the task, as the keep had once been home to hundreds of Witchers and trainees who all ate like starving men. Plenty of sturdy worktables fill the room save for one wall, which features nearly half a dozen cooking fires and stoves – which look comically rustic next to the extravagant expresso machine and various appliances scattered around the room.

As Vesemir works, he purposefully tunes out the conversations happening around him, and focuses on the Captain. He’s heard a lot about the man, though he’s not eager to trust second-hand information over his own impressions, even if Abraham Erskine had been a friend.

Vesemir frowns, looking away from the Captain and down at his own hands. Abraham’s death had hit him hard, not so much because he hadn’t seen it coming – war was hell, in so many ways – but because he’d felt somewhat responsible. Vesemir had warned him many times that dabbling in Witcher mutations was dangerous, but Abraham had been so earnest in his desire to use the knowledge to help heal people that Vesemir could do nothing but do his best to guide him.

And then, of course, the war began. And suddenly Erskine’s noble goal had become a bastardized attempt to create a new generation of Witchers.

Vesemir huffs, looking up to meet the Captain’s eye, and amends his previous thought. Not so much an attempt as a reality.

The Captain’s face opens in question, brows lifting as his kneading slows.

“You’re gonna make crackers if you keep that up,” Vesemir says, gesturing to the nearly over-worked dough. “Put it in that bowl there to proof.”

The Captain does so, looking vaguely bereft now that there’s nothing to do with his hands.

Vesemir snorts and starts him on another batch. They both work in silence, only looking up when there’s a squawk from the other Avengers and laughing as the one named Clint attempts to remove a spiral of potato peel from the back of his shirt.

He’s almost surprised that none of the pups have wandered through the kitchen looking for scraps or handouts before dinner, but then again perhaps not. 

* * *

“Is that really necessary,” Jaskier asks later on at dinner, once dishes have been served and the Captain has once again made his intentions clear. There’s enough empty spots at the table that no extra chairs are needed to seat the Avengers, but it’s obvious that their guests are somewhat put out by being outnumbered – even if Jaskier and Ciri aren’t quite as intimidating as the Witchers or Yennefer.

“If he wanted to go to the Tower,” Jaskier continues, flicking his gaze from Geralt’s stoic frown beside him to the Captain’s stalwart gaze a few seats down, “he would have. Instead, he’s coming here because he knows – or, at least, hopes – he’ll be safe. Shouldn’t we respect his wishes?”

“HYDRA messed with his mind,” Natasha says, subtly eyeing the way Aiden absently twirls his fang-sharp dinner knife between his fingers. “He’s not lucid enough to make that kind of decision. Probably came here because it was the only place he could think of to be safe, doesn’t mean it’s the only place he will be safe.”

Jaskier hums, conceding the point. “What if, even then, he still prefers to stay here?”

“He can’t,” the Captain insists, drawing a myriad of reactions from the Witchers seated nearest to him. “If there’s any chance of getting Bucky back, he needs to come to the Tower where we can work with him. Last I saw him, he didn’t really recognize me, but he was starting to! I’m sure with just some more time, we can bring him back.”

Jaskier frowns, sinking against Geralt’s side as one hand comes up behind Geralt’s back to fiddle with the loose strands of his hair. It’s more of a self-soothing action than anything else. “What do you mean, bring him back?” Jaskier asks softly. “He’s here. He’s coming up the mountain right now.”

The Captain frowns, going off on a tirade that makes the Avengers frown and nod, though Anthony’s support looks cursory at best and none are so vehement as the Captain himself. Jaskier listens to the story of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and how they became what they are now. The hand in Geralt’s hair continues to stroke through silky strands, twitching every now and then as the scent of his concern perfumes the air.

Geralt turns his face into Jaskier’s neck and just breathes.

Around them Jaskier can feel the Witchers turning this story over in their mind, weighing the truths of it against their own experiences. It’s an enchanting tale, for certain, but not one that they’re unfamiliar with. Mutation and enhancement are a Witcher’s bread and butter, and for a long time, losing a close comrade was simply par for the course. 

At the end of it, Jaskier hums. It’s a contemplative sound of disagreement that has Geralt’s ears perking even more than the suddenly-still hand on the back of his neck. “I disagree,” Jaskier says, as if to drive the point home.

“The man that walks up the path to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier says slowly into the silence that has descended upon the room, “is just as much a man as the one that went to war with you. Yes, he is different to what you know. Yes, he is in need of help to recover from the wrongs that were done to him. But he is still James Buchanan Barnes, still Bucky if he still chooses to be called that.

“The Bucky that you know is likely gone, but this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. He has grown while you were not there to see it, and this is a tragedy, but this does not mean the change and the growth is something that should be unwritten. Show me a man that has not changed from who he was as a boy,” Jaskier winks at Tony, “and I’ll say that he’s no man at all.”

The Captain frowns. “But what he is now, it’s what HYDRA made him. He didn’t… choose it.”

“We rarely choose the changes that affect us most,” Jaskier says. “Witchers know this best of all.”

“Bucky isn’t a Witcher.”

Jaskier, Vesemir, and Geralt all snort. The Witchers gathered around the table make stifled noises of amusement. 

Tony leans forward, up on his elbows like he's back in an MIT lecture hall, interest peaked. “What makes a Witcher?”

Jaskier cackles as Vesemir huffs. “God, don’t get him started,” the older man says. “Entire centuries I’ve spent debating that question with this fool and we’ve still yet to reach a decision.”

“It’s because you just don’t have the same perspective I do, my dear,” Jaskier responds. “A Witcher’s view of a Witcher and a Bard’s view will always disagree. But to answer your question succinctly–”

“Please,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier whacks him on the shoulder. “To answer your question _succinctly_ ,” he repeats, “a Witcher is just a man. Or, I suppose, in some cases, a woman. The folly of most is in describing Witchers as what they _do_ rather than what they _are._ ”

“What, then, is a poet without a verse or a bard without a song?” Vesemir counters, though his resigned tone suggests that he knows what answer he will receive and still doesn’t quite agree with it.

Jaskier decides to save them the trouble of a well-worn debate and turns to the Avengers. “Anthony,” he says, “what are you?”

Tony takes a moment to think it through, exactly as he would have so many years ago, before smiling and saying, “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.”

Jaskier laughs. “Very good,” he says, “but a billionaire is not what you _are_ so much as what you _have,_ in the same way that philanthropist and playboy are, again, what you’ve _done._ I’ll grant that genius is perhaps the best of those at defining what you _are_ , but no man is simply one thing.”

Jaskier turns towards the other Avengers, leaving Anthony to think on the matter. “Captain,” he says brightly, “what are you?”

The Captain frowns. “I’m…” he trails off, seeming to discard a number of responses before he finally says, “displaced.” The Witchers make interested, encouraging noises, but know better than to interrupt a philosophizing bard.

“An interesting choice,” Jaskier hums, resisting the urge to stand and pace as he parses through the subtext of the statement. “ _Dis_ placed, rather than _mis_ placed, implies a sort of… irreparable shift, doesn’t it?” Jaskier nods to himself. “The only problem is that a displacement, while permanent in theory, is also rather relative and conditional, depending on how one chooses to look at it. The solution to _dis_ placement, therefore, is to redefine what this _place_ is until you’re in the right one. It’s all about outlook.”

The Captain’s face pinches in on itself, and a guffawing laugh echoes throughout the room as Lambert returns to the room carrying a frighteningly large keg of who knows what. “Melitele’s tits, Professor Pankratz,” he says, setting it down at the end of the table. “I knew that degree in fucking philosophy would come back to bite us all in the ass.”

Jaskier laughs merrily, unfazed by the crass words. “Tell us, then, oh wise Witcher, what are you?”

“An unrepentant asshole,” Lambert says easily, “but you knew that.”

“Aye,” Jaskier agrees with a laugh, “it’s rather hard to miss.”

Lambert agrees heartily, leaving once more to hunt down a spout for the keg, fingers ducking in to ruffle and tug on Geralt’s hair as he passes.

“You were saying about Barnes, though,” Natasha says, face and tone tight with what Jaskier recognizes as a stoic attempt to hide irritation.

Jaskier hums, pulling his attention away from batting at Lambert’s hands. “Yes, I was, wasn’t I,” he muses, “well, with Barnes, its less about what makes a Witcher and what makes a… well, what makes James Buchanan Barnes and giving him a safe opportunity to figure that out. He’s spent nearly a century with HYDRA in his ear telling him exactly what he is and what he does and what he’s worth. Now he has none of that. He has to figure it out on his own.”

“And he can figure it out just as well in the Tower,” Steve insists, sounding tired. Jaskier doesn’t blame him.

Jaskier nods, “he might could, yes,” he agrees. “But who would be there to help him? I daresay no one in the world knows his plight quite like the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, who have long had to redefine their own identity to fit the changing times over and over again. You said it yourself, Captain. You’ve been in this time for nearly five years now and you still consider yourself displaced. Are you sure you’re fit to guide him the way he needs?”

“This has nothing to do with me!” Steve shouts, rising to his feet.

Jaskier purposefully relaxes further as he feels the assembled Witchers tense, keeping his hand in Geralt’s hair lax and languid. “It has everything to do with you, Captain,” he says. “Sergeant Barnes will need guidance, reassurance, and a steady foundation to lean on when he feels weakest. Can you truly say in good conscience that you can be that for him, when you have so adamantly resisted change within yourself?”

The fireplace burns ever so slightly brighter, and Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s knee tenses once more as the bard’s voice deepens just enough for a Witcher’s keen ears to take notice of the change.

“I respect your adamance,” Jaskier says, “and understand your fear of losing what you were. You are, in your own way, keeping the flame of your previous life and all the people who loved and were loved by you. I respect that. But a flame must be fed, must always grow, or shrink, or spread. It cannot be frozen in time.

“To do so,” Jaskier says sadly, “is to smother it.”

The fire flickers and lowers, casting the hall in dim light as Jaskier’s words circle throughout the room.

The silence is broken, unexpectedly, by Geralt, whose voice hums along the floor and banks the fire back to its previous height. “Little Bear was nothing but a weapon to HYDRA,” he says, somber, every eye in the room on him, but his own gaze is distant and flickering. “When they did not need him, they put him on a shelf and left him to gather dust. They told him he was not human, treated him like he was not human, and so he began to believe it.”

Geralt looks down the table at his brothers, over towards Vesemir. “We Witchers know what this is like, to be treated as inhuman so often you start to believe it.” He smiles at Jaskier. “It is… hard… to unlearn.”

Golden eyes flicker towards the Avengers, passing over them calmly but with such weight that Tony feels his chest tighten when he meets those slitted pupils and glowing eyes. “They called him the Soldier, and I have no doubt that if Jaskier asked ‘what are you’, he would say ‘the soldier’.”

Geralt’s eyes finally land on Steve, boring into his eyes with the weight of decades, centuries of grief and strife and struggle. “What, then, is a soldier to do without a war?”

The Captain swallows.

Geralt nods.

“If you cannot answer that question for yourself, then how can you hope to help him find his answer?”

There is silence, and then, “What is a soldier,” Natasha asks softly, “without a war?”

Geralt nods to Jaskier who says, “anything they want to be.”

There is a moment of silence and then, with a rueful smile Geralt says, “Truly, the most terrifying thing of all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from Human by Rag'n'Bone Man
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to leave those in the comments box. Thank you to everyone who has bookmarked this fic or left a funky little kudos and/or comment, I really appreciate it. 
> 
> Also! If anyone has any insight on how I might connect Zerrikania and Wakanda in this universe, I would really love to hear about it. I adore the Tea & Vea, Dora Milage connection but don't really know enough about either to integrate them together and do them both justice. I have ideas for working around it, if it should come to that, but if anyone has any ideas it would be a massive help. 
> 
> Thank You!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: I pulled the name Dr. Webster (see paragraph 1) from a teacher that actually taught physics at my high school. She changed her first name to Zodiac. Dr. Zodiac Webster. Legendary.
> 
> I have no plot. I have no plan. This story may go somewhere, and you may have suggestions. I'd love to hear them. This story may go nowhere, and I may drop this entirely if it does. I apologize in advance.
> 
> Nevertheless, I do have a chapter 2 but I want to give myself time to work on Chapter 3 before I post it. 
> 
> Drop a kudos if you liked it, and a comment if you have any suggestions or concerns or just want to scream into the void. Also if you haven't heard the full version of The Song of the White Wolf I recommend it, it's so beautiful.


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